


Like Wild Beasts

by nickahontas



Series: The Valaena Verse [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bittersweet, But from a canon perspective, F/M, Not A Happy Ending, Rare Pairings, Rhaegar has a BAMF little sister, Robert's Rebellion, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22518619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: Valaena Targaryen, younger sister to Rhaegar Targaryen, does not want to change the world. She only wants to survive. But when her father visits her bed chambers, she realizes that if she wants to live, she must play the game of thrones.A self insert shown from a canon character’s perspective.
Relationships: Brandon Stark/OFC, Daenerys Targaryen/Stannis Baratheon, Jaime Lannister/Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Lyanna Stark, Ned Stark/Catelyn Tully
Series: The Valaena Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714522
Comments: 56
Kudos: 473





	1. Chapter 1

She first comes to him as a crone.

Brandon thinks her to be a specter of some wronged woman come to taunt or pity him in his final hours. Father’s sharp inhale disavows him of that notion. Seemingly in response, the crone throws back her hood. Soot darkens her hair, but it still gleams silver in the flickering torchlight. Young, beautiful, and covered in blood and steel, Princess Valaena Targaryen glowers down at them with dead purple eyes.

Brandon might have been aroused if it weren’t for the circumstances. And the eyes. Those are corpse eyes. Bolton eyes.

“There’s only six of you,” she says.

“Princess,” Father answers carefully.

She ignores him in favor of kneeling at Kyle Royce’s feet. Kyle scampers back against the wall, terror writ on his freckled face. She only jerks his chain closer. The lock soon opens with a sharp click. A moment later, his manacles fall off with a clank. Father glances at the door nervously.

“It was foolish to come here,” she says, moving onto Ethan’s chains. Poor Ethan, so very young and eager. Ethan is his only regret in this damned mess. “And with only six men. What do you think you could have done with six men?”

“Get my sister back,” Brandon bites out.

The Princess glances over her shoulder. Her pale, regal features betray no emotion. It is unnatural. All of them are, the fucking inbreds.

“Your sister is not here. Nor is my brother.”

Ethan peers at Father questioningly as he massages his wrists. Father nods sharply to the door.

“No one will come, Lord Rickard. I made a distraction, killed all the guards, and hid them in a broom cupboard. Still, I don’t know how much time we have. We must hurry.”

Jeffory Mallister wastes no time in joining the other two at the door when he is freed.

The girl- because for all of her posturing she can not be any older than Lyanna- stares at Elbert Arryn for a beat too long. She doesn’t look away until he looks pointedly down at his chains. She tuts as she works. From this angle, Brandon can see that she doesn’t have a key. She is working with lockpicks. Is this even the Princess? He has heard strange tales of the Faceless Men.

“And the heir to the Vale too. Fucking idiots.”

It takes longer to free El, something about rusted iron according to her muttered curses.

“Explain,” Father orders when she kneels before him. What Brandon had thought was a crone’s stoop seems to be a heavy pack underneath her cloak.

“My father came to my rooms last night.” Brandon freezes, becoming as still and tensed as a cornered wolf. Ethan makes a strangled noise. “I decided to leave, and I figured that if I’m going to risk my life I might as well make a show of it.”

“What about the Kingsguard?” Father demands. Brandon has never seen him so pale.

“My mother’s nightly screams are my lullaby, good Ser. The Kingsguard are sworn to protect the King and no other. Or the Prince, if they consider him a king. Vows become inconsequential when you swear so many that one negates the other.”

Father’s chains clink open but he doesn’t move. The Princess jerks her head at the dark corridor. “There’s a rope in the hall. Tie yourselves to it. Who ever can keep their head in a fight should bring up the rear.”

She turns to Brandon. Her eyes flash with something so suddenly he wonders if he is imagining things in his state. She bows her head and begins picking the lock on his ankle.

“There are children in the walls with knives and crossbows. We must strike them down at first sight. If any of you cannot, then stay here to die so the rest of us might live.”

“Children?” Ethan asks, voice thick with incredulity.

“Yes, children. Orphans from Essos with their tongues cut out.”

“Mother have mercy,” Jeff mutters.

Brandon twists his ankles as the cuffs are removed. The Princess crawls closer to reach the manacles at his wrist. This close, he can smell lavender beneath the blood and leather. He watches the muscles in her jaw tick as she works her thief’s magic.

“How did a princess come to learn all of this?” He wonders. 

She cuts her violet eyes at him. Unnatural, the lot of them.

“The Kingsguard are conflicted men,” she says, lowering her ear to his hands. Her thick braid shifts from where it is tucked into the collar of her jerkin. “They think succumbing to a Princess’s whims will absolve them of whatever sins they might have to commit for her father. Ser Barristan taught me how to pick a lock. Sneaky old bugger, that one. I’ve never been able to lose him as a tail.”

Her lips twitch the slightest bit when the lock clicks. Brandon, out of habit, helps her to her feet as he stands. She’s taller than he realized. Definitely taller than Lyanna. The Princess, however, wastes no time in contemplating him. It’s almost insulting. Instead, she throws off her cloak and gets to work.

“Seven hells!” Kyle croaks.

Almost every one of her long limbs has a blade tied to it. She passes out long knives and short, serrated daggers and even one of the swords on her hip. The right one, he notes. Her right hand must be her dominant one. Brandon accepts his knife just as he is finished tying the rope around his waist. He passes the end to her.

Once it is knotted tightly, she leads them out of the cell and into the corridor. Cries and moans sound from every one of the closed doors. Their party halts at the end of the hall, where a heavy iron door is shut.

She turns back to her little line of ducks, full lips pursed into a thin line.

“I do not know what awaits us. Stay close and stay silent. If you must die, do so quietly.”

With those inspiring words, she opens the heavy door and pulls Brandon down the stairs. He doesn’t even have time to look back at his father before the darkness reaches out to claim him.


	2. Chapter 2

The castle is a maze of darkness. Rats and mice scurry over their feet. Several times, Brandon is forced to crawl through on his belly or turn sideways. Even then the wet stone scrapes his nose. He will be filthy and bloody, but he will be alive at least.

Not once do they see a child. The fact is not lost on the Princess. Her pale face grows grimmer with each passing moment. He can’t see much, but he can see her well enough. He can see that she’s scared. He can see that she’s got a great ass. He particularly enjoyed watching her crawl in front of him. If Brandon’s going to die, he’ll at least have something nice to think about while it happens.

Finally, or perhaps forebodingly, the passages widen into the shape of a corridor. Light filters through gaps high on the walls. It’s daytime. How long has been a prisoner here? How long has it been since he felt the sun on his face?

The Princess sticks to the wall, her sword loose in its sheath and her dagger ready in her hand. She pauses at the corridor’s end. Listens. Brandon does too. He can hear movement, but it does not seem to be from around the corner. It is from much further.

She looks up at him, nods, and then turns the corner.

Brandon nearly stumbles in shock. They are not in the dungeons any more. At least, not in the deepest parts. This room is far too cavernous to be considered part of the dungeons. It is dark and wide and completely empty. A sloping hallway spills into the side and two gated corridors stand ominously at the other end.

The Princess tugs on the rope and breaks out into a run. They’ll be going down into the dark, then.

It seems to take an eternity to reach the other side. Brandon finds himself glancing at the sloping hallway as he passes it. A distraction, she’d said. It must be one hell of a distraction if all of the screams and hurried footsteps are any indication.

The gate she chooses is thankfully silent. The iron is far too rusted for them to be so quiet. Perhaps she piled it before in anticipation of a hasty escape? Another bout of uneasiness turns his gut. This is all working out far too well.

He follows the Princess down and down through the tunnels until almost suddenly, the stink hits him. Brandon gags, pulling his shirt over his face. She’s taken them to the sewers. He wants to laugh. It’s so inspired and unexpected that no one can think to look in the sewers.

Or so he hopes.

When the air finally begins to clear, when the sound of rushing water drowns out their boots, Brandon is almost blinded. It is a sunny afternoon and even the little light that filters down to the sewer mouth burns his eyes.

The Princess uses her dagger to cut the rope. Brandon quickly follows suit. He follows her to the thick heavy bars that the filthy water flows through.

“Can you fit?” She asks.

He’s the biggest of them all. If he can fit, they can all fit.

“I’ll manage. You lot go on. I’ll catch up.”

It takes a bit of arguing from his friends, but Father convinces them to go on. Father has just made it out and Brandon has just began to work the edge of his hip through, when he hears the horse.

“Shit!” Jeff cries, as they all rush into the embrace of the wall.

The Princess does not run. She squints into the distance. Brandon pauses to curse the gods for doing this. They are so close. So close and Brandon is so tired. So tired and thirsty and hungry. They were so close to escape.

“What are you doing?!” She shrieks, her eyes wide and gleaming with a strange fire. It’s just as unsettling as when they were empty. He prefers them empty, he thinks. “Get out here, you great lout!”

“Son! It’s one rider. We can fight him off, but you need to hurry.”

Brandon pushes himself further through. Pain sears through his body as the hard iron catches.

“Suck it in!”

“Fuck off, Kyle! I can’t very well suck in my dick and arse, can I?!”

“Pull him out, boys!” Father orders.

“Use the sewage as butter!” The Princess calls

They all rush over to obey, just as Father and the girl walk out to meet the rider. They are an odd pair, standing on the bank of the river with their swords loose at the sides.

Ethan pulls hard. Brandon curses, but some of his chest rips through. A pair of hands slather his trousers in muck while another pulls at his leg.

The rider stops. It’s a Kingsguard with ashes darkening his armor and long blonde hair. Ethan pulls again, causing Brandon to scream as the pain tears through him again.

“Well when the Spider told me to come here, I hadn’t expected this,” the guard says blithely. Curiously, he dismounts.

“Ser Jaime,” the Princess says.

Ah, Brandon thought he recognized that golden head. Shit fills his nose as Jeff covers his chest in more sewage. It works, though. The bars do not seem to be as unforgiving.

“Ser, is it now? I thought we were friends, dear Val.”

“Jaime, please. You can’t get us all.”

“I don’t have to. I’m only here for you. They’ll hunt the others down.”

Brandon lurches to the side. Finally, finally, finally, he slides through. Elbert catches him on his stumble. Brandon throws him off and staggers over to his Father’s side. Ser Jaime’s green eyes flick from Brandon’s matted hair to his crusted boots. 

“It won’t be difficult, I assure you. I could smell you as I rode through the gates.”

The Princess raises her sword.

“Go,” she says, never taking her eyes off the Kingsguard. “Go to Ashara Dayne at the end of the war. She will know where your sister is then, but not before. Go. In the river, to get some of the stink off.” She twirls her sword once, twice. “Go!”

None of them go. The others march to stand behind the Princess, their small blades raised threateningly.

“He came to my rooms, Jaime. I will not go back. I swear it to every shit god in this shit world. I will not go back.”

The knight blanches.

“You hear what he does to my mother. You saw what he ordered from Tyrosh. He’s mad. I won’t go back. I won’t die at his feet. I won’t.”

Ser Jaime looks at them all, eyes lingering on Lord Rickard’s sword.

“Go, you fucking idiots!” The Princess snarls, and she lunges.

The knight parries just before it strikes his head. The horse screams in panic. Ser Jaime curses.

“Stop!” He screams, struggling to get control of the beast. “Stop, damnit! I won’t take you!”

They still. Princess Valaena’s guard drops.

“Just go. Leave! Quickly, before I change my mind.”

Brandon does not need to be told twice. The Princess, the mad bitch, takes a step towards her friend.

“Come with us. You’re a prisoner here, too. You’re a good man, Jaime. You deserve better than this.”

The knight clenches his jaw. He stares up at the city walls, at the madness lying within.

“My sister is in there. I can’t leave her.”

The Princess nods gravely. “Then so be it. Don’t die for them, Jaime. They aren’t worth it.”

“I’m too talented to die,” the knight says. “Now leave, or they won’t believe me when I tell them I was late.”

Father grabs the girl by the arm. She turns and runs after Brandon’s friends. He watches her as they sprint for the trees, her strange pack bouncing against her back, her loose, dirty braid flying like a mottled silver banner. She does not look back.

Night falls on the Kingswood slowly, as if the sun is hesitant to give up its aid. They are all weary and exhausted. Even the Princess stumbles along the narrow path. She leads them through the trees confidently, even reaching out to caress the rough bark once or twice.

She calls a halt when they reach a calm brook. She doesn’t say anything. She simply collapses onto the grass and begins shucking off her bag and boots.

“Princess, we cannot-“ Father tries.

“Val. Call me Val.”

“Val. Val, we cannot halt for long.”

“Really?” She asks, never pausing in her ministrations. Brandon watches unbelievingly as she begins to unlace her jerkin right in front of them. “Jaime was right. We reek. I’ve taken the lesser known trails, but they’ll still catch up to us. At least if we’re clean and we follow the water we might be able to throw them off our scents. Besides, if we don’t have water, we’ll die. None of us have a canteen.”

Unfortunately, she doesn’t take anything else off, just loosens the jerkin enough to let her skin breathe.

“This stream goes southwest to the Wendwater,” she says, tying her boots to the straps of her pack. “We should be able to reach the Stormlands easily from there on. Everything but Griffin’s Roost will be safe.”

“We need to go north,” Father protests.

“How? We’ll need horses. Even if we split up, we’d never get by the blockades Aerys is sure to install on the roads. Our best bet is to go south, then north by sea.”

“She’s not wrong,” Jeff says. He and the others have already dunked their heads into the stream. “I could have us to Gulltown in two weeks if the sea is kind.”

Brandon sighs. They’ll be arguing all night. Father has never liked traveling by sea, and he hates being away from the North. Brandon does too, but if going south means getting home, then so be it. He pauses in unlacing his own jerkin. Perhaps he doesn’t need to go home, though. The Princess- Valaena said to ask Ashara about Lyanna. He can’t bring himself to call someone as unnatural as her something as common as Val.

Gods, does his head hurt. He’ll be able to think clearer when he isn’t covered in shit and on the verge of dehydration. And if Brandon’s learned anything from this ordeal, it’s that he needs to think more. The Princess wasn’t wrong in calling him an idiot.

He rips off the jerkin and throws it in the stream. His undershirt is next. He toes off his boots, then rips off his socks. He’s got his trousers unlaced when father interrupts.

“Brandon.”

“What?” He demands, turning to face his father.

The Princess is staring. Her violet eyes trace his chest, his arms, and down to where his dark hair disappears into unlaced trousers. Brandon smirks. She,to his surprise and utter befuddlement, meets his gaze defiantly. There is no blush on her cheeks. No fire in her eyes. Just enough ice to make the Wall envious. Unnatural, all of them. Nothing about her or her father or her cursed brother is natural.

“What do you think?” Father demands.

“I can’t,” he admits.

He shoves out of his trousers and brings them into the water. It embraces him with a cool gentleness. If he closes his eyes, he could be home, watering his horse on the way back to Winterfell. The stream is only knee deep but he lies in it all the same. Drinks in it, not bothering to worry about the muck contaminating it.

He’s out. He’s out and he’s not dead.

“Yes, Son,” Father says, voice wavering. He comes to kneel beside him, still dressed except for his boots. “You’re out. You’re alive. We’re alive.”

There, under the moon, covered in shit and mud, Brandon cries into his father’s chest like a babe.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that. The Princess- Valaena eventually wades over with a hand full of nuts. The Targaryens had fed them slop, butnone of them had much of an appetite. They all thought they were going to die. Brandon peers up at her through his long, dark hair as he chews.

“You know where my sister is,” he accuses.

She purses her lips and shakes her shining, wet hair. She must have washed it. “Not yet. I know where she will be when the war ends.”

“What does that mean? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It means that I know where she will be at the end of the war.”

“How do you know that but not where she is now?”

Valaena sighs. “You wouldn’t believe me. And I might be wrong now, anyway. I’ve changed too much.”

“What are you talking about? Speak sense, woman!”

She glances up at Father, who does not balk. He stares back with his own flinty gaze.

“Fine,” she bites out. “I have dragon dreams.”

“What?!” He cries.

“Dragon dreams. I’ve seen everything happen. Eddard Stark finds Lyanna Stark dying at the Tower of Joy at the end of the war. He pulls down the tower in grief of the men and sister he loses there.”

“You’re lying!” Brandon shouts, surging forward in a splash of water.

Father pushes down on his shoulders. He’s staring at the girl with an odd expression on his face. “Go on. What happens next?”

The girl hesitates. She looks past them and Brandon realizes the others are listening too.

“She...I’m sorry. She dies in the birthing bed. Eddard takes the babe to King’s Landing, where he finds the bodies of Rhaegar’s wife and babes at Robert Baratheon’s feet. He says his nephew is his bastard and calls him Jon Snow.”

“Now that’s horseshit. No one would believe Ned had a bastard.”

“But everyone thinks he is Ashara Dayne’s child. She dies too, you see. She jumps out of a tower when your brother brings her brother’s sword back from the Tower of Joy.”

“Seven fucking hells, we’ve been rescued by a madwoman.”

“No, I don’t believe we have,” Father says softly. Brandon’s heart skips a beat at the look on his face. He’s never seen his father look like that, not even their mother. “Our way is the old way, Brandon. The North remembers. We have our own greenseers, just as the Valyrians do.”

The Princess purses her lips again. It’s a tell of hers, Brandon notes.

“I won’t tell you anything else,” she says. “ Not until we’re safe. My father will find us here. We must go.”

Father nods. “Yes, of course. Up you get, Brandon. You must get dressed.”

“Or not,” the girl murmurs, so quietly he isn’t sure if he really heard it.

They travel through the Kingswood for ten days, living off of nuts and berries and the occasional fish. On the fifth, Ethan musters up enough courage to ask what is in the strange bag of hers that she calls a ‘backpack’. Brandon has to admit that it is a genius design, though the metal strap sliders are intricate enough to require a skilled smith.

She smiles, a little shyly, before rolling up her sleeve. Brandon shares a curious glance with Elbert. What could possibly be in there that could get her filthy sleeve dirty? Nothing alive, surely. They would have noticed a cat by now.

Valaena shocks them all by plunging her arm into the campfire. Father holds up his hand, ordering them all to quieten down. She smirks at them all. After several minutes, she removes it and holds it out for inspection. It’s the slightest bit red, but otherwise unmarred. Brandon raise his hand questioningly. She nods. He runs a finger down her forearm. It is soft and smooth and just a little hot.

“Dragon dreams,” he whispers. She nods. “You’ve got dragon eggs.”

Her full lips pull back into a blinding smile. She’s a different woman when she smiles. Her teeth are white and straight and her purple eyes crease at the corners. She’s beautiful. He knew it, of course, but he hadn’t truly felt she was beautiful. It was like looking at a portrait or a statue or even another man. He could appreciate the aesthetic, but it didn’t inspire anything. Not like this.

He doesn’t look away until the eggs are passed around. One is mostly blue with specks of black, another is deep purple with navy swirls and the third is the solid grey of storm clouds.

“Are they...” Ethan wonders, caressing the red one like a babe.

“No. They are petrified.”

“But you think you can hatch them,” Father guesses.

“I’ve seen my sister do it.”

“You don’t have a sister,” Ethan points out.

Ethan gets along with her best. They walk together, pointing out the different plants and animals. She loves animals. The first time Brandon saw her look anything than other than dead or angry was when they spied a vixen playing with her kits. The further they go from the capital, the more she seems to liven up.

“Not yet. Her name will be Danaerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons. She and Viserys escape Robert Baratheon and wait out their time in Essos.”

“Do they come back? Is the Targaryen name restored once again?” Elbert asks, not bothering to hide his distaste.

“No,” she says softly. She stares into the fire. “She returns only to die after doing a great service to the realm. Jon Snow decides to live out his life as a Snow in the North. The Targaryen name becomes nothing more than an annul in history. ”

“Why not a Stark?” Brandon wonders, after mulling her story over.

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “His family, I think. They didn’t care what his name was, so he didn’t either. It’s the people we love that makes us who we are, after all.”

“And who do you love, Princess?” Father asks.

She grins nastily, nothing like the smile before. “Myself, Rickard. Myself.”

That night, Brandon dreams of a great black direwolf and a purple dragon hunting one another through the Wolfswood.

Elbert and Jeff are sent into town. The rest of them wait amongst the trees in their own ways, Father and Ethan in their quiet calm and Valaena and Brandon pacing like wild beasts.

“You needn’t worry, Val. El might not like your family much, but he’s a good man, and capable,” Ethan tries to reassure her.

“It’s not him I worry about,” she snaps.

None of them flinch as they might have not a week ago. They’ve come to know the truth. Her attitude is her armor. In the capitol, anything other than dead eyes or a fiery temper were seen as a weakness. She hasn’t quite taken it off yet. Brandon doubts she ever will.

“Then who do you worry about?” Father asks.

He’s always asking her questions, always watching her, always scheming. It’s almost comforting to see him recovered enough to hatch his ridiculous plots.

“Robert Baratheon. He’ll kill me the moment I’m off our boat.”

“He will not,” Brandon hears himself say. He draws short, surprised. Even Father turns to him with his brows raised. “You saved my friends and my father, Valaena. I owe you a great debt. If finally beating some sense into Robert is the way to do it, then I’m all the more eager.”

Valaena frowns and crosses her arms around herself, but she eventually nods. They promptly resume their pacing. Father huffs a laugh.

El and Jeff return in the dead of the night with horses and cloaks. “The King’s men are all asleep or distracted. We must ride to Bronzegate quickly,” El urges.

There are only four horses. Leading a fifth would have been to difficult and time consuming. They distribute their weight as best they can. Elbert and Ethan, determined the lightest of the men, share one stallion. Valaena and Brandon share the other. She climbs onto the saddle with practiced ease.

“I didn’t take you for a horsewomen,” Brandon says, leaning low to speak into her ear.

She doesn’t squirm or flinch. He hadn’t really expected her to, but it was worth a try.

“It’s the best thing there is,” she replies.

Brandon flicks the reins. There’s a pretty girl in his arms and the wind in his face. All will soon be right in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemons at the end. Probably the only lemons in this piece.

Runestone is a peculiar castle. Brandon has not spent much time on any coast so he finds these coastal constructions frightening. This one looks as though it may slide off its cliff and into the sea at any moment. It is a strange mix of old and new. Walls carved with faded runes line corridors filled gleaming wooden furniture. A servant leads them to a spacious room that overlooks the calm sea. It seems too bright after their travels. There are too many faces, too many candles.

Kyle and Elbert do not rush to their family as the Arryns and Royces expect. They stand strong and steady at the Princess’s side, glaring at Robert Baratheon. Brandon likes Robert. He’s a bit young, but he’s strong and fierce. He loves Ned and thinks he loves Lya, which is sweet, but love makes people do stupid things.

Ned comes forward. He has become a man over the past couple of moons. There’s a new brittleness in his eyes. Fleetingly, Brandon wonders what has changed in them.

“Father. Brandon.”

Father doesn’t speak. He simply holds his arms open. Ned steps into themwithout shame. If there are tears, no one speaks of them.

“Nephew, come here. Let me hold you,” Jon Arryn says.

“I cannot, Uncle," Elbert says. "You have not offered us bread and salt.”

Yohn Royce frowns. “Son. Tell me the meaning of this.”

“I cannot, Father," Kyle echoes. "You have not offered us bread and salt.”

“Then someone fetch the fucking....”

Kyle’s father trails off as Jon Arryn holds up his hand.

“Rickard, what is the meaning of this?” He demands.

Father does not balk. “You have not offered us bread and salt.”

“Who is that hooded behind you? It is too tall to be your daughter.”

Again, Father does not waver. “You have not offered us bread and salt.”

Ned takes a deep shuddering breath. He glances from Jon Arryn to Robert Baratheon to Father, then strides over to Brandon’s side. A wolfish grin spreads across Brandon’s face.

“Jon, this is my castle,” Lord Royce snaps. “It is my right to offer my guests their rights. You cannot stop me.”

Lord Arryn bows. “Forgive me, Yohn. It is an old man’s worries. Nothing more. Please, call for bread and salt.”

They do not have to wait. It appears almost instantaneously and is passed to Valaena even faster. She scarfs down her slice, but does not speak until the others have eaten. Only then does Father steers her forward by the shoulder. She pulls back her hood to reveal a pale, aristocratic features and her cold, dead eyes. Brandon fights back a shiver. They had become emptier and emptier with each league the ship sailed.

Several gasp, but it is Robert Baratheon that thunders out a curse. It takes three men to hold the young lord back. Brandon stands steady.

“YOU DARE BRING THEIR WHORE HERE?!” He bellows. “I WILL-“

“You will do nothing,” Father says.

“I AM THE STORM LORD. I WILL DO-“

“You forget yourself, Lord Baratheon. It is my daughter that was taken, not your wife. Watch yourself or I will show you how ice freezes the storms.”

“Out, Robert!” Jon Arryn barks. “Get out!”

The young lord is incensed, but he sees reason. The fury seems to follow him out the door. Funny how house words work out like that. Though they certainly did not work out for Valaena. She doesn't particularly bring fire and blood to mind. It's more of ice.

Lord Royce steps forward and bows low. “Forgive me, Princess. I vow to you that you will face no harm under my roof.”

Valaena tilts her head to the side, studying him like a insect.

“I expected nothing less from Robert Baratheon. In fact, I may have been disappointed with anything less from your new king.”

Jon Arryn frowns. “How did you come to be here?”

“I rescued your heroes.”

“How?”

“I lit the Tower of Hand with wildfire and led them through the hidden passages of the Red Keep.”

He glances at Father, who nods. “We would all be dead if it were not for the Princess.”

“And from there you went to the Kingswood? Without meeting any obstacles?”

“Jaime Lannister faced us at the mouth of the sewers," Father admits. "He let us go, Jon.”

“This sounds too good to be true. How do you know she is not a spy?”

“Jaime Lannister is little more than a boy,” Valaena interrupts in her flat voice. “He still believed in the stories when he was chosen for the Kingsguard. He still believed in his vows. He might have never stopped if it were any other king than Aerys. The King rapes my mother, you see. None of us get any sleep for all the screams. Jaime didn’t expect that. He didn’t expect to hear his heroes tell him that is not their duty to protect the innocent.”

Valaena stares Jon Arryn in his blue eyes. “The men in my family are not fit to rule. You will hear no complaint from me so long as the children are unharmed.”

“Your Highness, this is war against a dynasty-“

“I am tired, Jon,” Father cuts in. “I am not young and I was in that cell, sure I would meet a grisly death, for five days. Five days. Five days of darkness that stretched on for eternity. The boys were in there for twice that. We are exhausted and hungry. Let us retire. We may meet again early on the morrow.”

“Of course, Lord Stark,” Lady Royce says. Her concern seems genuine, but Brandon does not trust these Southernors. He wants to go home. He yearns to feel the cold winds on his face. “Our servants will lead you to the guest wing. The Princess can have my daughter’s old room.”

“I’m staying with the Starks.”

Everyone pauses.

“Your Highness,” the Lady pleads. “You have gone through a trying ordeal, but it is not-“

“I don’t give a fuck about my reputation. I’m staying with the Starks.”

Brandon can’t help it. He barks out a laugh.

“It’s so good to see someone else get that glare,” he says. He offers his arm in exaggerated gallantry. “Come, Princess. The wolves will protect you from the beasts in the night.”

* * *

Three days later, Brandon is strewn across something called a fainting sofa, desperately wishing he could faint. He does not have the patience for this. They have been arguing over maps and scroll from dawn till far into the night for three days. No doubt it will go on for three hundred more, all while Lyanna is out there in some lonely desert waiting for him.

“You’re annoyingly attractive,” a dull, feminine voice says.

Brandon opens his eyes. The Princess stands before him in one of her odd ensembles: a short dress-tunic frock over tight leather pants. He lets his lips pull back slowly in a way that he knows makes women crazy.

“Tempted, Princess?” He drawls.

“Not now,” she says.

Brandon raises a brow. His incredulity deepens when she lifts his feet long enough to sit beneath them. She passes him a scroll before he can wonder at her familiarity. 

“I wrote a letter. Will you read it?” She asks.

Brandon unfurls the scroll. He had expected a beautiful, immaculate penmanship. Instead, it is a hurried scrawl much alike his own. He scans the letter, brows raising with each word.

_To the People of Westeros,_

_by the hand of Princess Valaena Targaryen_

_Note that this message is addressed to the people of Westeros. This upcoming war will affect both low and high born, but is the innocent and poor that will suffer the most. Despite that, I find myself advocating for this war. It is a necessary one._

_My father is not fit to rule. He is mad. I have seen him execute a boy for petty theft. I saw the way he smiled, the way his eyes came alight with joy when the boy’s headless body twitched off the block. I’ve seen him burn people alive. After witnessing eight burnings, I have long grown used to th_ e _screams and the smell. My father never did. It excites him to no end._

_It is for this reason that I helped the Northern party escape. The King had recently purchased a strangulation device for Tyrosh. His plan was thus: When the Starks declared trial by combat for Lyanna, fire would be his champion. He would place Lord Brandon in the device with a sword out of reach and set Lord Rickard on fire. Brandon Stark would strangle himself trying to save his father from cooking alive in his armor._

_Our problem should have a simple solution; my elder brother is of an age with a daughter and another child on the way._

_Unfortunately, his recent actions have proved that he too is unfit to rule. Some speculate that Rhaegar Targaryen_ _kidnapped Lyanna Stark. Others say she left to escape an unwanted marriage. To that, I say that my brother is a supposed king and Lyanna hardly more than a girl. Either way it was wrong. Either way, my brother abandoned his pregnant wife and young daughter to a mad king. He abandoned his duties. He abandoned his people. His greed has started a war._

_The problem should have a simple solution: if the rebels win, they have the right to rule._

_The rebels have declared Robert Baratheon their king. He is too unfit to rule. He has a temper the likes of which I, the daughter of the Mad King, have never seen. He cannot control his impulses. He is six and ten and knows of two bastards already. Robert Baratheon was born for a battlefield. He will become a legend during this war. He will, unfortunately, be a king as terrible as Aegon the Unworthy._

_So what is our solution? A madman, a kidnapper, or a temperamental boy?_

_Perhaps you expect me to suggest myself. I do not want to rule. I never wish to step foot in the capitol again. I have been rewarded a keep in the North for my deeds. I long to feel the crisp winter air rejuvenate my bones. Too long have I been suffocated by the heat and corruption of King’s Landing._

_I have a younger brother, Viserys Targaryen. He is admittedly spoiled, as princes are wont to be, but given time and proper guidance, he could grow to be a good man._

_I also have a niece. She is willful and strong and free from the incestuous stain of my family._

_Fight for them._

_Fight for the future. Fight for what this realm could be._

_And at the end, if you are weary and alone, come to me in the north. We can work together to build a home of our own far from the greed of southern kings._

_Yours,_

_Princess Val_

“Well?” She demands quietly, glancing over at the arguing lords. Only Father is paying them any attention. “What do you think? Is it stupid? Should I take out the last bit? Was I too presumptuous?”

Brandon sits up, careful not to kick her with his feet. The only tell in her distress is the sharp, downward slant of her lips.

“Why ask me?” He asks.

She purses those lips. Her mouth is obscene. Vulgar, even.

“Because you’re honest. Because you understand. You don’t give a fuck about any of this.” She waves her hand at the council dismissively. “You just want Lyanna and to go home.”

“Which keep did he give you?”

“He didn’t say. He has quite a few other things on his mind, I think.” Her lips twitch the slightest bit. “But stop, Brandon. What do you think?”

“It made me want to come North with you.”

“So it’s good?”

“Aye. It’s good.”

“Excellent! Thank you.”

She reaches for the scroll. He watches it disappear up her right sleeve and realizes there’s a dagger up her left one. The outline is barely visible through the pale green of her dress. He bets Catelyn Tully doesn’t arm herself to the teeth. She doesn’t walk around in leather, doesn’t tell people to go fuck themselves.

Catelyn Tully wouldn’t have broke them out of that cell.

Brandon grabs Valaena by the hand before she can leave. “Do you want help copying it out?”

Her brows raise.

“It’s tedious work,” she cautions.

He shrugs. “I’ll be causing trouble with you. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

* * *

“What the seven hells were you thinking?!” Jon Arryn bellows.

Ned flinches back into his seat. Brandon sneers. This is even better than he thought it would be. He’s been itching for this fight.

“I didn’t think any of it up,” Brandon says.

“‘From Valaena Targaryen, by the hand of Lord Brandon Stark.’ You thought enough! Rickard! What say you?”

Father remains silent and unmoving. His mask is as unreadable as Val’s. Behind him, the few northern lords that have arrived look the same. This is a test for Brandon, then. Everything Father does is a test.

“This is war!” Arryn continues. “Thousands will die if we are not careful! And sending out a letter demonizing Robert is not careful! It’s foolish, impulsive, and dangerous!”

“I wrote the truth,” Valaena cuts in coldly. “Robert is a fine warrior but he will be nothing more than a puppet king.”

“A good king listens to his advisors-“

“A good king doesn’t solely rely on his advisors like Robert will you. After you rip the babe from Elia’s arms and dash his head against the wall, of course.”

“I would never!”

“So you mean to let the Targaryens live?”

Jon Arryn is silent for a moment.

“No,” he finally says. “You know I can not.”

Val smiles. It’s a dark mockery of the one she made by the campfire.

“Killing babes?” The Greatjon asks incredulously. “Is that what you call a war?”

The Vale men shift in their seats, eying the giant Umber warily. Brandon can’t resist his own smile. They should be uncomfortable. They should be afraid. If Brandon is to be the Stark in Winterfell, he will have a say in what the North is known for.

“Which of you will be the one to do it? Will it be Robert? Or you?” She asks, almost nonchalantly.

“Princess, this is not the time. There are other pressing matters to discuss, like-“

“The man who passes the sentences swings the sword,” she hisses. Brandon’s heart skips a beat. Where did she hear that? “If you cannot swing the sword, then the man does not deserve the sentence. Will you look my six year old brother in the eye as you cut off his head?”

“And you, Princess? Would you look your father in the eye as you cut off his?”

“WHY DO YOU THINK I’M HERE?!” She screams, finally, finally breaking through her wall of ice. Her eyes are burning with the fire of ten suns, her cheeks are flushed red, and Brandon has never seen anything more beautiful. He’s never wanted anything more. “I woke up to him peering through my canopy with that fucking leer of his. It was either slit his throat and die for it or try to make a difference in this clusterfuck and die for it! Make no mistake, kind Ser. I would gladly hand him over to Roose Bolton and laugh as the skin falls from his muscle.”

“Flaying is outlawed,” Roose Bolton interjects in his soft voice.

Father raises a brow. “Indeed it is.”

Lord Arryn pays them no mind. He is still staring at the Princess, who becomes lovelier and lovelier as her fire is stoked. Brandon can’t quite stop the image of her looking like this underneath him, so alive and passionate and trying to keep up with his thrusts. He doesn’t want to stop it.

“And your brother?” Jon Arryn asks.“Would you kill Rhaegar?”

She lifts her chin. “No. I would not. For all is his faults, he is my brother. He protected me in his own way. Killing Rhaegar would truly be kinslaying. I will not do it.”

Lord Arryn nods grimly. “There is hope for you yet, then.”

Valaena’s brows raise higher than he’s seen.

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?” She demands, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Hope for me yet? The fuck is that supposed to mean? I’m the baddest bitch you will ever meet. I escaped that cesspit with my honor and dignity in tact. I made my rules and I stuck by them and I lived. You could never! So you can shut the fuck up with that ‘needs to better’ bullshit. And if any of you have problem with it, you can catch me outside and learn what it’s like to fight someone raised by the greatest fucking swordsmen this shit world will ever see.”

She meets their eyes one by one. One by one they look away. With that, she spins on her heel and storms out of the room, taking care to slam the door behind her.

All the blood rushes to Brandon’s cock. He doesn’t even consider it. He just follows.

“Lord Stark!” Jon Arryn bellows, trying to regain some control of the situation. Brandon has never seen anything so pathetic. “Where are you going?”

Brandon smiles his slow smile, the one that makes women crazy. “I’m going to see what it’s like.”

  
He catches up to her in a corridor, ass swaying with each stomp. He doesn’t think. He’s supposed to. He told himself he would. But how is he supposed to resist her? She’s everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s been looking for all this time.

He grabs her elbow, swings her into an alcove, and shoves her against the wall. A dagger is at his ribs. It brings a smile to his lips, one that is still in place when he crashes his mouth against hers.

He’s inside her within minutes, fingers digging into her smooth thigh, gritting against the urge to lose himself. That’s not what this is. There will be plenty of time to give themselves over to the beasts clawing at their chests. This is something more. This is everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted her to lose her composure and go 21st century with “catch me outside” 😂😂


	4. Chapter 4

Lyanna sees the dust before she sees them, an orange cloud that slowly recedes into the blue horizon: ten horses with a ragtag army of riders. They bear no standard, are dressed in no house colors, but she knows. She knows deep in her bones who this is.

She spins on her heel, bare feet slapping on the cool stone.

“Lyanna, the babe!” Wylla cries.

Lyanna pays her no mind. She throws the door open and teeters down the stairs as quickly as she can. She hates being pregnant. She does not hate the child. She could never hate the life growing inside her, but seven hells does she hate being pregnant. She has no balance or stamina to speak of. It as if the babe is taking over her body for its own.

“Arthur!” She calls. “Arthur!”

She totters around a curve, right into a wall of steel. She glances up and up and up. Ser Gerold stares down at her with his wide mouth pressed into a tight line.

“I can stop this!” Lyanna cries, pushing against his armored chest. “Let me go! I can stop this! It needn’t end in bloo-“

“Princess, back up the stairs.”

“No! I can stop this. Let me go down. Brandon will listen, you need only-“

“Back up the stairs.”

“Let me stop this, Gerold. I can end this now, this senseless violence. No one need die. Let me speak with him. Please.”

He sighs, and for the shortest moment, she thinks he has agreed, but then she is in his arms. His armor cuts through her old dress at the back of her knees.

“The door, Wylla,” he orders.

Lyanna cranes her neck to find Wylla cowering a few steps above. In a shameful rush of hatred, Lyanna despises the wetnurse. She hates her greasy hair and tattered dress and meek countenance. It’s stupid and selfish; Wylla is not to blame. There’s no one for Lyanna to blame except herself. She got herself into this mess. She was stupid and selfish enough to run off with Rhaegar.

She hates him too. Hates him for making her fall in love and then fucking her raw and leaving her in the middle of a desert to push his spawn out.

“Don’t do this,” Lyanna pleads. She doesn’t know who she’s begging, Wylla, the Kingsguard, Brandon, or the gods themselves. “Please, don’t do this.”

Her cries for mercy are ignored. Wylla opens the nearest door, one that leads to a large closet storing the little food and barrels of water Rhaegar thought necessary. Ser Gerold lowers her to the ground and stalks out without a goodbye. As he bars the door, Lyanna wonders if it is the last time she will see him alive. She can’t decide if it makes her feel better.

“Milady, forgive me, but the baby! If you-“

“Shut up and help me with these boards,” Lya snaps.

Wylla cringes, but joins her at the window. Fortunately, it had been boarded shut years ago and the nails are rusted and weak. The two of them manage to break off the right side just as the horses pull to a halt. They crowd together, Wylla pressed tight against Lyanna’s back, to peer out the window.

It is not a good angle. The window faces west and the entrance is south. Lyanna can only see half the riders. Her heart clenches in a painful vice at the sight of her brother. Brandon is the Stark she has always been closest to, her fiercest protector, her dearest friend, the other half of her soul. He has not dressed in full plate. None of them have.

“There’s only six,” Wylla hisses, her bony fingers digging into Lya’s shoulder.

“There’s ten,” she protests. “And look! They’ve dressed for speed. They won’t be weighed down by steel or the heat.”

One of the northerners trots past Brandon. The rider unpins his headscarf and Lya freezes. Every muscle in her body tenses. Flight or fight. Silver-white hair, aristocratic nose, purple eyes. But it is not Rhaegar before them. It is not even a man. 

“Princess,” Ser Gerold says. “You ought not be here.”

“Gerry,” the Princess replies, one side of her full lips quirked in a sad smile. “I am where I am needed. Unlike you.”

“We have our orders.,” Ser Oswell says. Lyanna cannot see him, but she knows his deep, scratchy voice.

“Your orders are bullshit. You are needed elsewhere. Elia gave birth to a son named Aegon. Go to him. Protect him. He is your king.”

“Prince Aegon is surrounded by loyal men,” Ser Arthur argues.

“King’s Landing will fall. Tywin Lannister will sack the city. Ser Loch will drag Rhaenys out from under Rhaegar’s bed and stab her half a hundred times. Aegon will be ripped from Elia’s arms and thrashed-“

“Enough!” Ser Arthur sighs. “Your lies fall on deaf ears.”

“I have seen it happen! Rhaegar will die on the Trident. Jaime Lannister will shove his sword through my father’s back and slit his throat for good measure. Go to them. Protect them.”

“We have our orders,” Ser Oswell repeats.

“We swore a vow,” Ser Gerold says.

“To hell with it! It’s bullshit. You know it is! What good can you do in the middle of the fucking desert? Come with us to Starfall. Let Lyanna give birth there, with a maester and midwives. She’s too young.”

Lyanna sighs, her hand going to her belly. The babe kicks at her hand lazily. It’s true. She cannot give birth here with no help but Wylla. She is not a midwife, only a wet nurse.

“We have our ord-“

“Ashara is pregnant Arthur. I’ve seen her die too. She throws herself from the top of Palestone Sword when your bones are brought home. Don’t-“

“Your lies fall on deaf ears,” Arthur snaps, his voice thick with disdain.

The Princess screams like a petulant child. Lyanna spies Brandon shift in his saddle.

“What do you think we’re going to do?!” She cries. “We’re not going to hurt either of them. We just want them safe! Lyanna will die without proper care. She’s too young!”

“I will not harm my nephew,” Brandon says, urging his horse to the Princess’s side. “He is a Stark as much as he is a Targaryen. Come with me to the North. We can hide you there.”

“We have our orders,” Ser Gerold repeats.

“Don’t do this,” the Princess pleads, her voice cracking. “Don’t make me kill you.”

“Go inside, Princess. You ought not be here.” Ser Oswell says. Lyanna has never heard him speak so gently.

The Princess looks at Brandon. They stare at each other, communicating silently. Eventually, the Princess nods gravely.

“I am with Brandon,” she says, as if that explains everything.

“So be it,” Arthur says, all his former vitriol gone. He pulls Dawn from its scabbard. The blade shines in the high sun. “Let it begin.”

“No,” the Princess says. Lyanna has to strain to hear her. “Let it end.”

The North is known for its honor and its savagery. For its courage and ferocity. All but one are present in the ensuing battle. All ten of them throw their honor into the wind. Yet still it is not enough.

Ethan Glover is the first to fall. She knows it is him by his slender build and the silver gauntlet on his breast. He lies in the orange dirt, his blood pooling around him in a scarlet puddle, and still manages to pull himself toward Ser Gerold before his body gives out. Another man soon joins him in the dirt, but not before shoving a dirk into Ser Gerold’s shoulder. The Kingsguard doesn’t seem to notice it. He fights on and on, twirling and ducking, his sword a blinding silver blur.

Brandon dances in and out of Lyanna’s view, always back to back or shoulder to shoulder with his Princess. The Princess is astounding. Quick as a whip, mean as a snake. Arthur is faster, more collected. He seems to know where they will be before they do. He turns and ducks, letting their blades glance off his steel armor. Lyanna watches it all, her nails bleeding into the stone windowsill.

“Lyanna, you must breathe! The ba- Mother’s mercy!” Wylla’s concern breaks off into a startled gasp.

Ser Arthur’s third opponent collapses to the ground, his head rolling towards where Ser Gerold must be. A loud, feminine cackle echoes up to their cupboard. The Princess, her pale features splashed in blood, has her head thrown back in laughter. Brandon is smirking next to her. Lyanna knows what he must look like, dark hair matted with sweat, cheeks flushed, eyes alight with joy. He is made for this. His blood calls for it.

Wolf’s blood.

Lyanna’s does not. Perhaps she does not have as much Wolf’s blood as they say. She is not glad for this violence, not alive with all this death.

Ser Gerold bellows, and his sword goes straight through the chest of a Ryswell. The other Northman takes the opportunity to strike. Ser Gerold can not move quick enough. The Northman’s blade slices through the gap in his armor, catching on the meat of his body. The Kingsguard does not fall. He kicks the body off his sword, turns it onto his last opponent, and rams it through the man’s belly. Both men clatter down in a tangle of limbs and steel.

Wylla chokes out a cry and intones a prayer. Lyanna pays her no mind. She grips the windowsill harder, ignoring the pain from her cracked nails.

Brandon and the Princess are a whirlwind of color. There is blood on his temple and she favors her left leg. Arthur meets them blow for blow. He betrays no sign of fatigue.

There’s a sudden screech of metal. All three of them pause to glance over where Ser Oswell is. Was, judging by the sudden quiet. It is only the three of them now.

Arthur grunts and surges forward.

“Yield!” Brandon growls.

Arthur does not reply. He only keeps up his macabre dance. Lyanna know, deep in her bones, that there will never be another man like him. There will never be another so strong and graceful, who can ward off two of the best fighters the North has to offer like they are green.

Suddenly, the Princess twirls, her braid escaping from her collar. Her sword finds the back of Arthur’s knee just as-

“NO!” Lyanna screams. “NO!”

Brandon slumps to his knees. Dawn is deep in hisbelly, the bloodied tip nearly dragging the ground from his back. Arthur falls next, Brandon’s hand still around the sword protruding from under his arm.

“NO! BRANDON!”

“BRANDON!”

Lyanna does not know which voice is hers and which belongs the Princess. She is frozen, ice spreading through her veins like wind blowing snow across a field.

“BRANDON!”

The Princess drops to her knees, shoving Arthur out of the way. Brandon’s mouth moves once, then twice, blood dribbling from the corner of his lips.

The Princess shoves his hair out of his face. She supports him like a babe, one hand tangled in his hair, the other grasping his left hand. She jerks it forward, puts it against her own belly.

Brandon’s full lips pull up in a slight smile. Then, without warning, his body gives out. He falls onto the Princess in a loose heap.

The Princess shrieks, the ice cracks, and Lyanna’s world goes black.

——————

Wood snaps. Breaks. A man speaks.

“Val, this is-“

“Do it,” a woman says.

Lyanna opens her eyes. Weak orange sunlight shines on a round entryway. A plump girl with stringy blonde hair kneels at the open door, whispering to a limp man. A dead man. 

“Brandon is dead,” Lyanna hears herself say.

Wylla startles. She gasps, and rises to rush over to Lyanna. Her hands are warm and strong as they encompass Lyanna’s round belly.

“Oh Lyanna, you gave me such a fright. You gave us all such a fright.”

“The babe? Is he well?”

“Yes, yes! He’s fine.”

Lyanna places one hand next to Wylla and braces the other on the stone floor to push herself up.

“No! You must-“

“I want to see Brandon.”

Wylla cringes, brown eyes glancing toward the door. “I don’t-“

“It’s alright,” a woman says.

The Princess stands in the doorway, white cloth tied tight around her knee. Her hands and face are clean, but everything else, even her braid, is stained red. She walks forward, Rhaegar in her proud shoulders, in the easy feline grace.

“I’m Val,” she says, offering a pale, slender hand. Rhaegar’s hand. Lyanna takes it.

“Lya,” she grunts as she is pulled off the floor.

Dizziness overtakes her when she is upright. She grasps this Val, this princess, this new Rhaegar, by the arms as she fights to overcome it. The babe wiggles in protest.

Val is tall like her brother. She has to wrap Lyanna’s arm around her waist rather than over her shoulders.

“Come. I’m burning them.”

Lyanna’s breath catches in her throat, but she let Val lead her out of the Tower. The sun is setting over the horizon, casting everything in a warm glow. Blood cakes the sandy dirt. There are several red smears where the bodies have been dragged into a neat row. She counts them, looking for dark hair and broad shoulders, but Brandon is not there.

“Where-“

The question dies on her lips as she turns to question the Princess. There, just behind her, is a bed of branches. Three dead men lie on their pyre, arms crossed over swords.

“The Hightowers were kings, did you know?” Valaena asks, her expression as cold and impenetrable as the wall. “And the Daynes are still called the Kings of the Torrentine.”

Lyanna stumbles forward. Brandon is handsome even in death. He could be sleeping in the bramble of dry wood and sparse leaves. Something large and gray and round is perched on his torso.

“Is that...?” She breathes.

“Yes.”

Lyanna jerks out of the woman’s grip.

“You’re mad,” she accuses.

The Princess lifts one shoulder in a shrug. A man lumbers over with a torch, bald and wide and bearded. He purses his lips, then bows his head.

“Lady Lyanna,” he greets, eyes darting to the Princess.

“Oh don’t start, Buckets,” Valaena says. “He’s already dead.”

She takes the torch from him with a heavy roll of her purple eyes.

“This isn’t the way!” Lyanna protests. She cannot watch her brother burn. He is a Stark. He is meanto rest in the crypt with his ancestors. Starks are meant for ice. For the North. Not the fire and the desert.

“We’ll bring his bones North,” Valaena says, still in that flat, cold voice.

She strides forward and places the torch at Brandon’s feet. Flame jettisons up to the sky. Lyanna staggers back.

This is not natural. She knows it deep in her bones.

The Princess cranes her neck to follow the flame’s trajectory, and then, without a word, she steps into the flame.

The babe kicks something fierce. Hand on her belly, Lyanna rushes after her. A strong grip at her elbow brings her to a halt. She lurches away, but the man holds strong.

“Let me go! I’ve got to-“

“You’ve got to do nothing,” he says. His deep northern brogue settles some of the aching in Her chest.

“But she just...”

The man peers down at her solemnly. “I’ve not known the Princess long, but I’ve spent near two moons on the road with her. The Princess will do as she likes. No man can stop her, even if it’s her own death. Your brother...your brother tried to keep her from fighting today and you see how well that worked out.”

Tears and smoke burn at Lyanna’s eyes.

“Fucking Targaryens,” she chokes out.

The man gives her a hint of a smile. “Unnatural, the lot of them.”

He leads her gently to the tower.

“There are still a few horses left,” he says. “We’ll head off to Starfall at first light. I know you want to be free from here, but I don’t know the terrain or the people. I’d rather not travel at night more than we have to.”

“What’s your name?”

“They call me Buckets, my lady, but my name is Theo Wull.”

“Thank you, Buckets.”

“It is an honor to serve House Stark.”

Hours later, when the moon is at its peak, Lyanna jerks awake. The night is quiet and the sweet smell of burning flesh still hangs heavy in the air.

“Brandon,” she whispers, the tears starting anew.

She’s going to kill Valaena Targaryen, if the bitch isn’t already burnt to a crisp.

Lyanna pulls herself up in that cumbersome way she has to now. One doesn’t realize how often one bends at the waist until it’s impossible to do so. Gods, she hates being pregnant. Her rustling causes Buckets to jump to his feet, sword drawn and eyes alert.

“The fire’s stopped,” she says.

He grimaces, but follows her down the stairs anyway. They’d commandeered the Kingsguard’s room as their own for the night. It was strange to sleep between a dead man’s sheets. She’d found one of Oswell’s hairs on her sleeve and nearly screamed.

Outside, the stars shine down on the never ending horizon. Smoke still lingers with that horrible, haunting stench. The pyre has burnt to nothing, and in the middle, next to a pile of bones, is a princess and three small dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and a epilogue


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic depiction of stillborn

Starfall is not at all what Lyanna thought it would be. She’d imagined a small white keep overlooking the ocean.

'And the Daynes are still called the Kings of the Torrentine', Val had said.

Lyanna does not doubt it now that she is in their castle. Starfall is beautiful and old, a sprawling pale sentinel of a time past. Lyanna, Val, and Buckets cower in a small guardhouse off the main gates. Lyanna cringes at the heat in her billowing cloak (an effort to hide her pregnancy) and the rattling wooden chest at her feet (an even worse effort to hide the dragons). The dragons are locked in chained chests, scratching and screeching at the wood. Val had left them free through their slow crawl across the cracked earth, but hid them away the closer they got to the coast. It is easy to discount the word of a few peasants, Val had said, but harder to argue against an entire castle.

Not that there are many people left in the castle. Most of the men have gone to fight for their Dornish queen.

The heavy door creaks open. Ashara Dayne strides through, her head held high and belly even bigger than Lyanna’s. She halts abruptly at the sight of the Princess. Val is bald from the pyre, her scalp dusted with silver fuzz. All three of them are filthy and starved and bleary eyed. It has been a long, slow ride across the desert, further hampered by the rickety cart and baby dragons.

Fucking baby dragons. Oh, how smug she will be when she next sees Rhaegar. Dragons are reborn and it had nothing at all to do with him or his stupid prophecy.

“Hello Ashara,” Val says softly.

Lady Dayne presses her lips into a thin line. “There is news, Valaena. Rhaegar is dead, no thanks to you."

Lyanna inhales, fists clenching of their own accord. Sadness blooms alongside the relief growing in her chest. She should not feel grief for him, but he had been so very, very lost. He didn't know how to be happy and now he would never learn. She will hate him one day, years later when she has come to terms with this whole ordeal, but not now. Not while he has just died and his child is growing in her womb.

Rhaegar’s sister remains stoic, but her skin takes on an unhealthy pallor. Already pale, she whitens like snow blanketing the fields outside Winterfell.

This isn’t right. No matter Rhaegar’s faults, he was a brother. A brother to a woman that is Lyanna’s sister in all but name. They are aunts to each other’s children, lovers to each other’s brothers. They are pack.

Lyanna shoves herself in between them and snarls up at Lady Ashara.

“So is your brother, you bitch, and so is mine. Now, you can let us rest and eat and then borrow a ship or I swear-“

“What do you mean?” She cuts in, her dark brows furrowed.

“Your brother is dead. He and Brandon killed each other.”

Lady Ashara’s frown deepens.

“Arthur can’t be dead. He would never fall in combat,” she protests.

Buckets clears his throat and steps forward. There is no pity in his gaze as he unties the sword at his belt and holds it out, hilt first. The mesmerizing purple sapphire winks at them mockingly.

“We brought his bones, Lady Dayne, and his sword,” he says.

Lady Ashara’s eyes trail past her guests to the cart parked just outside the door. A long, high scream erupts from her lips, a scream that raises the hair on Lyanna’s neck. She screams and screams. Val sees her fall before it happens and barrels forward to catch her. The door slams open and an old man in armor, rushes through, an even older maester on his heels.

Something splashes. A small puddle spreads from Lady Ashara’s feet.

“To the maester’s turret, quickly!” The guard yells.

Buckets, being the closest, leaps forward to gather the Lady in his arms. She hangs limp with her hair nearly trailing the ground. The men hesitate, but quickly allow him to pass.

Lyanna pauses. She does not know the Lady Ashara, and they have not been given bread and salt.

“Come on,” Val orders, pulling her by the hand.

“I don’t-“

“That’s a Stark in there.”

They rush through the airy hallways where flashes of gauzy lilac curtains and pale wood catch her eye. Starfall’s elegant beauty is evident in even the chaos.

“Are you sure?” Lyanna asks.

Val purses her lips.

“It doesn’t matter,” she finally says. “I’ve never liked Ashara, but she shouldn’t do this alone. No one should.”

I would have, Lyanna realizes. I would have been all alone except for Wylla.

She squeezes her sister’s hand, tears burning at her eyes.

Ashara Dayne gives birth to a little dead girl. She comes out of the womb with a purple face and the fleshy cord still wrapped tight around her neck. She is undoubtedly a Stark. They name her Anya, a good Northern name that starts with an A, and bury her in the Godswood.

Through it all, Ashara never leaves her bed.

A maester finally examines Lyanna. He pokes and prods and determines that she is not fit for travel. The babe is too big for the birth to take place anywhere other than a keep with a maester. Lyanna squeezes Val’s hand when he says so.

He pokes and prods at Val next and says she is pregnant too. They knew, of course. She’s far enough along that her middle is beginning to thicken. She’d been exhausted and irritable all along the road, but she hadn’t had enough food to be sick.

“Can I travel?” She asks.

The maester hesitates. “In theory-“

“No!” Lyanna cries. “You can’t!”

Val juts her chin in the air.

“I must,” she declares. “Aegon and Rhaenys need me.”

The maester wrings his hands and peers at Lyanna beseechingly. She sighs, twisting in her seat to look Val in the eye.

“Tell Maester Abbas everything that you told me you did.”

“It isn’t enough.”

“Tell me anyway, Princess,” he says gently.

Val huffs. “I wrote to both of Elia’s brothers before I left and then later, in the Vale. I even wrote here to get Ashara to look for Oberyn. I spoke to Jaime and I warned Llewyn, but-“

“What else do you think you can do?!” Lya cuts in.

“I know ways into-“

“I’m sure they’ve got your sewer blocked off, Val. And when you get there, what then? Those orphan spies will find you and kill you. Even if the gods are kind and you manage to stay hidden-“

“I wouldn’t need to stay hidden. I would only need to get in and get Aegon and Rhaenys out.”

“But how, Valaena? Will you ride off on the Kingsroad with the heirs to the Iron Throne on your saddle? Or perhaps row a boat all the way to Dorne? Or fly-“

“I. Don’t. Know,” Val bites out. “But I have to do something. I can’t just sit here while everyone I love dies.”

Lyanna pats her knee sympathetically. “I know, sweet sister, I know, but we have other people to worry about now. I’ve got this little monster and you’ve got your own. An onion, did you say?”

The maester nods. “Yes. The size of an onion. Also, Princess, if I may, you need not do nothing. The Lady Ashara is still unwell and you are a Princess. The Torrentine needs guidance.”

Val scoffs, but she goes along with his plan anyway.

Lyanna’s days are hell. She is confined to another old abandoned tower. No one can know which babe is which. Here, at least, she has guests. Buckets and Wylla spend most of their time with her. Val visits twice a day. The dragons, however, become her closest friends. The little beasts are free to fly in the topmost room, but they spend most of their hours curled around her belly. If anyone wonders at the strange noises, they do not speak up. They know better than to test a Targaryen with eyes of ice.

Throughout it all, Ashara still does not leave her bed.

Moons pass. The war goes on. Westeros is ravaged. They eat enough fish to drive Lyanna mad. She thinks of Benjen all by himself in Winterfell. Here, on loyalist territory, their food and supplies are carefully rationed. What must it be like for him, so isolated in a rebel keep?

Lyanna’s water finally breaks on a sunny day. She is rushed to a dark, stuffy room that smells of lemons and vinegar. Val sits with her, holding her hand, and fervently cheering every swear Lya yells out.

The room is spinning. Pain courses through her limbs. She can somehow feel everything and nothing below her waist. That strong, clean smell has been overtaken by the heady scent of blood.

“Look at me,” a voice demands.

Valaena Targaryen’s face hovers inches from Lyanna’s.

“You are a badass bitch, Lyanna. You are going to push this baby out and go North and live a long, happy life with Ned. Say it. Say, ‘I’m a badass bitch’.”

Lya grits her teeth through another wave of pain. Not a contraction, just an aftershock of all the trauma her body has been through. The sun has long since set. It might even be rising again soon.

“Say it, Lyanna!”

“I’m a badass bitch.”

“WHAT?!”

“I’M A BADA-AAAAAAHHHHH!”

Jon Snow is born amongst a torrent of blood and curses. Ashara still does not get out of her bed.

Lyanna is still confined to her bed two weeks later, when her father slams the pale pine door against the wall. He barrels across the room and gathers her in his arms. Relief floods through her very soul. Father is here. She is safe.

Val and Buckets follow, closing the door gently. They wait discreetly against the far wall until both Lord Rickard and his daughter dry their tears.

“Benjen? Ned? Are they alright?” Lyanna asks, wiping away the wet trails on her cheeks.

“Aye. Benjen is still at home. Ned should be making his way to the capital from Storm’s End.”

“Have you any news from King’s Landing? Of Rhaenys and Aegon?” Val asks.

Father’s face falls. He beckons for the Princess to come closer. She does not. A great, heaving sigh leaves her body as her hand lowers caresses her belly. Even halfway along, her bump is hardly noticeable. Lyanna’s was twice that size in that stage of her pregnancy. She hates her for that, just a bit, that her body is made to carry children so easily. Lyanna will never carry another.

Father rises, approaching the princess as if she is a wild beast. He reaches for her other hand and holds it tight.

“I will protect you and my grandchild if it is the last thing that I do. No one will lay a hand on you.”

Val lets out a bitter laugh. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can if we wed.”

She halts. Turns to look at him for the first time.

“We need not live as man and wife. You need not even live in Winterfell. You can have a keep of your own wherever you like.”

She presses her full lips into a thin line. Father places both hands on either side of her face and peers intently into her eyes.

“Brandon loved you. He loved you more fiercely than I have seen any man love a woman. You became my friend when you picked the lock on my chains. You became my family when Brandon followed you out of that council in Runestone. I have ripped the country apart for one daughter. I will do it again for the other.”

Val’s face collapses. It is uncomfortable to see. The Princess is always in a fiery temper, an icy rage, or intensely happy. She has never been vulnerable. Never delicate. Father holds her, letting her sob into his filthy jerkin.

“I loved him,” she croaks. “I loved him so much. It isn’t fair.”

“I know, child, I know.”

They sway like that for an eternity. Lya wants to call her over, to have her lie down in the bed and hold one another until sleep takes them. The princess is not that sort of woman. She is not affectionate. She’d always been alone as a child. Lyanna, however, shared a bed with whichever brother would let her up until she left with Rhaegar. Her favorite memories at curling up in Father’s lap to read or nap, or melting into Ned’s side as Old Nan spun her tales.

“Now. I need to meet my grandson and rest. All of us have been summoned to King’s Landing, but I am not leaving until you are well, Lya.”

Lyanna, Buckets, and Val share a glance. It slowly settles into a silent debate, each of them glaring and twitching, until Buckets finally rolls his eyes.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. He squares his big, round shoulders and sets his chin. “Lord Stark, I do not think that very wise. The Princess....She hatched dragons and let me tell you, they’re a right pain in my arse to hide.”

Father blinks, turning to Val for confirmation, or perhaps a punchline. She jerks her head in a sharp nod.

“Seven fucking hells,” he whispers. He staggers back to sit on the bed.

“I thought to take them North, to the Northern Mountains,” Val says. “Word travels slow and no one will think to ask of the Mountain Clans.”

“Aye, ‘tis true,” Buckets rumbles. “Course, the beasts will get so big that they won’t be hidden anymore, but by then no one will be able to do anything about it.”

“Dragons,” Father whispers, running a hand through his hair.

“Dragons for the North. For the Starks,” Val says.

“Where are they?”

They look up at the ceiling.

“The top of the tower,” Lyanna says. “I was hidden up there with them as well, but there are too many people in and out to let them down here.”

“Surely someone’s heard or seen-“

“If they have, they won’t speak a word. I told Ser Ilyes that if anyone even thinks about saying anything, I’ll raze this place to the ground when they’re older. And trust me, I will.”

“Oh, we don’t doubt that at all, Princess,” Buckets drawls.

“Fucking hells,” Father repeats.

“I have a plan,” Valaena announces. “There was another baby, a daughter. Lady Ashara was pregnant, and I know it was by either Brandon or Ned, but she hasn’t spoken in months.”

“Where is the babe, then?”

“In the Godswood,” Lyanna answers gently. “She was stillborn.”

Father sighs. “At least she is in peace. Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

“You can say no and we can think of something else,” Val offers.

“What is it?” He asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Well. We won’t be able to hide that Lyanna gave birth. And Jon is so big he doesn’t even look like a newborn. Neither Lyanna nor Ashara have been seen since since we arrived, so no one’s the wiser. It isn’t pleasant. I don’t want to do it, but....”

“Using Anya may be the only way to protect Jon,” Lyanna finishes.

She hates it, but it’s true. The heat is a good enough reason for however the body might look by now, and the child was undoubtedly a Stark.

“Will Lady Ashara agree?”

“Lady Ashara won’t have a choice.“

“What?!”

“I’ve already discussed it with the household. Everyone agrees she needs a change of scenery. Sunspear might remind her too much of Elia, and nowhere else will be safe for a royalist, especially one as beautiful as she is. I’m sending her and Buckets north on a ship with the dragons.” She pauses, frowning the slightest bit. “If you agree with the plan.”

“I need to think on this. I need to think on everything. And I have yet to hold my grandson.”

Val sighs. “I’ll take you to him.”

Lyanna watches their tall figures disappear into the hallway.

“Think he’ll go for it?” Buckets asks.

“Yes. It’s distasteful, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.”

“True.”

They’re quiet for a while. Then, he asks, “Think she’ll go for it?”

Lyanna grins like a wolf. “I’ve always wanted a mum.”

Lord Rickard Stark weds Princess Valaena Targaryen in a sept two days later.

A ship leaves that very night. Lady Ashara does not fight them. She does not even ask where they are going. She just wraps her silk shawl tight around her shoulders and stumbles up the ramp. Buckets, Wylla, and ten Stark soldiers go as well, along with a crate as tall as a man and as wide as three. The Dornish sailors take one look at Lord and Lady Stark’s haunting stoicism and bury their questions deep.

They leave for the capital soon after. Lyanna and Valaena are stuck in the strange covered wagons that the Dornish use instead of carriages. Lyanna has to admit that is luxurious, but she and Valaena are horsewomen. They watch the soldiers canter on around them with envious scorn. Worst of all, she must abandon Jon to his wetnurse. She can not be seen doting upon him like a mother would.

It is a long, slow journey. Lyanna only becomes well enough to ride by the time they are halfway through the Reach. When they stop at a lord’s castle to trade the wagon for a traditional carriage at the Stormlands border, Valaena finally throws a tantrum. It has been long coming. It’s almost a relief to have it out of the way.

“If the Dothraki can ride until they give birth then so can I!” She snarls.

“The Dothraki are accustomed to it,” Father argues calmly. He knows how to deal with a temper; he’s raised two wild beasts of his own. “You’ve spent the past few moons pampered in a castle. Your body may not-“

“I am NOT sitting in that horrid thing for another-“

“If you can get on your horse by yourself, then I will allow you to ride.”

Val spends half an hour trying to hoist herself upin the saddle, snarling all the while about how no one allows a dragon to do anything. In the end, her belly is too big and her body too weak, and she is forced to ride in the carriage with Jon and the servants. Lyanna supposes it might be honorable to join them out of solidarity, but decides not to in the end. She has not been so free in a long time, though she still yet has chains.

Eventually, they arrive at the ruined gates of the capital. King’s Landing is a shithole. Lyanna doesn’t understand why somewhere so atrocious is the capital of the seven kingdoms. It is terribly ugly, nothing at all like the dignified ethereality of Starfall or the lush steadiness of Riverrun. She covers her face as they ride through the cobbled streets in a vain attempt to stifle the smell. The townfolk all cheer at their direwolf banners, then quickly fall into a tense silence when they see a heavily pregnant Targaryen at Father’s side.

Father picked up a maester on the Roseroad, who determined she is eight or nine moons along. Valaena had cursed and snarled, crying that she would not see her child born in a cesspit. Lyanna had thought she was being dramatic, but she understands now. She wishes Jon could have gone with Ashara.

“Rhaenys!” A man calls, his deep voice bouncing off the rubble.

Valaena twitches, her knuckles going white as she squeezes the reins.

Another voice, this one feminine, shouts, “Elia!”

A third yells out, “Aegon!”

‘I hate that godsforsaken city, but it’s still my home. Still the home of my ancestors. I won’t go back to it like a cowering dog,’ she’d said. Father had even helped her in the saddle himself. Lyanna hadn’t understood that either. Or rather, she hadn’t cared to. She certainly doesn't want to now. What if the Karstarks had conquered Winterfell and she had to come back to kneel to Brandon's killer? The thought makes her stomach writhe, makes a chill run down her spine in the summer heat.

After what feels like an eternity, they pass through tall archways that mark Red Keep’s entrance. A group of men and a lone woman wait at the end of the stairs. Lyanna vaults from her horse before it has even come to a halt and sprints across the cobbled ground to fling herself at Ned. They hold each other for a long time, basking in the other's presence, thinking of the brother that cannot be there to laugh and throw his arms around them as well.

"Rickard," A man that can only be Jon Arryn says in greeting.

Lyanna peels herself off of Ned. Father and Valaena look very handsome at one another's side. Both of them are blessed with attractive features and dressed in rich fabrics, but neither have bothered with any sort of glamor. Instead, they wear their cold, eerie expressions with grace. They look like a king and queen.

"Jon," Father replies flatly. “Let me introduce my daughter, Lyanna Stark, and my wife, Valaena of House Targaryen.”

Lyanna suddenly wishes that damned procession had been longer. By the look on his face, Jon Arryn seems to think so too.

“You have my condolences, Rickard” he says. He glances at Val’s round stomach thoughtfully. “And you, Lady Stark.”

Catelyn Tully shifts on her feet. Benjen would enjoy this. He would have grinned and reveled in the awkwardness. Gods, does she want to go home. She wants to hug Benjen and drag him and Ned to lie under the Heart Tree and never leave again.

“Lady Lyanna. It pleases me to see you returned to your father’s care. What happened to you was a travesty, but it seems you are holding up well. Your strength is commendable. Astounding, even.”

Lyanna forces a smile and curtsies. She can’t make herself to come up with pretty lies. She’d never been able to do that. It had made her proud once, but now she can’t help but wonder if Brandon would be alive if she could.

“I’m hungry,” Valaena suddenly announces. “I’m hungry, I’m exhausted, I’m sore, and my bladder is being attacked by tiny baby feet at this very moment. I suggest you get me to a chamber pot before I start another war.”

A few men chuckle weakly, but Jon Arryn winces. He acquiesces nonetheless, leading them up the stairs with a regal wave. Lyanna latches onto Ned as they make their way down the maze of red walls. It’s all too warm, too golden. Winterfell is no stranger to earthy oranges and reds. Good color and lighting do wonders for morale in winter, but this place is too much. There’s no harsh tones, no ice, no reminder of what the world is really like. It’s false.

Val stops outside a cramped room that none of them even saw. A door is nestled in a statue’s alcove, revealing a tiny washroom. It isn’t stocked, but some thoughtful servant had at least emptied the chamber pot in the chaos.

“It’s strange to think of her living here,” Ned says softly.

“Aye,” Lyanna agrees. “This place is not meant for the likes of her and me. It’s a pretty cage.”

“Every castle is a cage for you,” he argues fondly.

“True enough. Maybe I should take Benjen and go live beyond the Wall.”

Val takes a long time, but when she rounds the corner, her face is as blank as a corpse. She waddles down the halls importantly, leaving Jon Arryn to scramble forward to lead the way in a desperate attempt at control.

“How is she, really?” Ned asks.

Lyanna frowns at him. “I forgot you two are familiar. Did you get to know her well?”

“Aye. I spent most of my time with Brandon and they were inseparable. It was dishonorable, even cruel of him, but...” Ned sighs heavily. “They were made for each other, Lya. I’ve never seen two people look at each other the way they did.”

Lyanna is silent in her contemplation. She’s so lost in her own thoughts and memories that their sudden stop confuses her. Two massive, intricate doors tower over them all. Its a work of art. The iron dragons look almost alive. She can almost hear them roaring, fiercer and louder than the screeches she came to love so well.

Slowly, so slowly, the doors open. A cavernous hall awaits beyond. Light shines through the massive windows, illuminating the great black and brown stains in the floor. It’s said that the Mad King burned half the prisoners alive when his daughter escaped with the Starks.

The Iron Throne is everything she’d thought it would be: fearsome, ugly, and somehow, almost embarrassingly, tempting. It reeks of power, something Lyanna has never had. Robert takes the uneven iron steps three at a time. He looks right here, fierce and tall with the skulls of dead beasts at his back. Powerful.

“Announcing the Hand of-“

“SHUT IT!” He bellows, rushing to where she clenches at Ned’s arm.

Lyanna takes a deep breath, preparing herself for what she must do. She lets him gather her up, spin her around, and blubber in her hair. She’d forgotten how handsome he is, how very warm and big. It could be easy to lie to herself, to let herself forget that he is not some refuge from the gods. She could be powerful.

Lyanna curtsies deeply.

“Your Grace,” she greets.

He caresses her cheek with his large hand, his blue eyes as soft as a summer sky. “Oh, Lya.”

“Your Grace,” Jon Arryn cuts in. “Lord Rickard Stark has come to pledge his allegiance, along with his new wife.”

Robert finally looks up at that.

“His wife?....” he asks, but he’s already staring at Valaena on Father’s arm. His gaze shoots from her hair to her belly and back to her hair. “What in the seven hells did you do to your hair?!”

“Ser Arthur was kind enough to cut it for me,” she says sardonically.

Lyanna shivers. She hates this mask. It’s unnatural, unnerving. Val is a right bitch, but she isn’t cruel. She isn’t this dead thing this place makes her into. She’d cried all the way across the desert for Arthur and his companions, Ser Oswell in particular. Robert wraps a heavy arm around her shoulders as if to warm her, as if a Stark could ever be cold.

“We haven’t always got along Val, but I-“

“Stop, Robert,” she snaps.

Lyanna feels his body go very still at his side.

“We’ve discusses this before, but I’ll say it again. I do not begrudge you Rhaegar’s death. I do not begrudge you for my father’s. I do not begrudge you for taking my ancestor’s throne. I will bend the knee today. It might take me half an hour to get back up, but I’ll do it. What I will never forgive you for is Elia and her children. I will curse your name until my dying breath for killing them.”

“I didn’t-“

“No, you didn’t, but where are the men who did? I see Tywin Lannister-“

“What’s done is done, Val,” Robert cuts in, his voice rising. “If your sister ever comes back to these shores, she can go North to you so long as she never marries. I’ll even let Viserys take the black. You risked your life for my Lyanna and proved that perhaps the women in your family aren’t as rotten as the men.”

The Princess doesn’t seem to be listening. Her purple eyes are darting from face to face in the small audience, craning her neck, fingers clawing into Father’s arm.

“Where is Jaime?” She asks. It is the first time she has ever looked so young.

Tywin Lannister shifts, his green eyes flashing with something dangerous.

“Where is Jaime? Is he well?”

The audience visibly wavers, their confusion evident.

“The Kingslayer is resting in the White Tower,” Jon Arryn says. “We thought you would find it more comfortable if he were not present upon your arrival.”

Val deflates, her shoulders dropping down from her ears.

“There was no need for that. I called Jaime my friend once and would like to do so again. I do not blame him for the deaths his father is guilty of and I certainly do not condemn him for killing Aerys.”

“So you’ll blame me for killing them but if he kills your father, it’s alright? Where is the logic in that?” Robert demands.

“They were innocent, Robert! They were babes!”

“A great travesty has occurred here,” Father says. Everyone turns to him, eager to see if it will be war again. “Innocents and the poor are the worst victims of war, yes, but it was more than that. They were ravaged. The men who did that enjoyed it and men are creatures of desire. We seek out pleasure wherever we can find it. Such men are a danger to us all. If it were a Northman who did that, I believe I would take great pleasure in their execution. Alas, it is not in my jurisdiction. I can only hope that my new king will prevent such travesties from occurring in the future.”

Jon Arryn inclines his head deeply. “Well said, Rickard.”

“Very well,” Robert says. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? We have business to discuss.”

He grins widely down at Lyanna. She has to fight very hard not shrink away.

“I don’t think I’ll kneel,” Valaena says. “I think I’ll do you one better. Can I have a brazier brought over?”

Robert frowns. Lya does too. This was not discussed.

“What are you on about now?” He demands.

“I’ll make a blood vow to you, cousin. It’s much more binding than any oaths I can say.”

His dark brows furrow deeper. “Alright, but I’ll hear them first. Someone drag that brazier over her.”

It takes three serving men to lift it. They are red faced and sweating when they place it, bowing hastily at their king. A fourth lights it and leaves as quickly as he can.

Valeana inclines her head to Robert. “First, I swear that I will not conspire to unseat you from the Throne, nor harm you so long as you are king.”

“Very well.”

He pulls an ornate dagger from his belt and offers it to her hilt first. A Kingsguard takes a hesitant step forward. Val smiles sadly.

“Don’t worry, Ser Barristan. I mean our new king no harm.”

She slices her palm, letting the blood drip into the flames as she repeats her vow. The fire burns brighter. Robert takes a wary step back. The audience is frozen. Lyanna sees fear in their faces. Fear and remembrance. The court is all too familiar with Targaryens playing with fire.

“Next, I swear that I will not knowingly conspire or harm any child born of Robert, Stannis, or Renly Baratheon.”

More blood trickles down. The flames dance higher. Robert curses.

Then, suddenly, quickly, Valaena makes another cut on her other palm.

“I swear that I will kill Ser Armory Lorch as he killed my niece. I swear that I will kill Ser Gregor Clegane as he killed my nephew. This is I vow with fire and blood.”

The blood splashed against the charcoal. The flames rise in a rush of heat, up and up, taller than even Robert. The audience cries out. Robert curses, dancing back and peering over at Valaena with unconcealed fear. The world seems to pause, the sun itself taking a deep breath to see what will happen next. It’s rather anticlimactic at first. The flames shrink into themselves until they are flickering as they should.

Then, there is a splash and a cry.

A pool of water floods at the Princess’s feet.

Osric Stark comes into the world not an hour later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I lied. There will be another chapter and then an epilogue. This chapter and the next were meant to be one but the story kept writing itself! 
> 
> Also, I’m think of doing an entire series of different Valaena’s with different characters like Ned, Robert, Stannis, Jaime or Roose. Would anyone be interested? If so, which one would you like first?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - non-graphic rape/non-consent and the discussion of rape.

Lyanna gazes down at her nephew adoringly. He is all Brandon. The only thing his mother has passed down is her unnatural silver hair. 

“He’s so ugly,” Val says. 

Ned chokes in his corner. Not even a full day has passed since little Osric’s frantic birth and the Princess is already walking, albeit slowly, around the room. Lyanna can’t quite forgive for her that.

“It’s the truth!” The Princess snaps halfheartedly. Motherhood seems to have mellowed out her righteous anger. “All newborns look like wrinkly potatoes.”

“It’s not an untruth,” Father allows. 

Val scoffs and rolls her eyes. She takes slow, steady steps to lean against the window, looking out over the rolling hills of roofs. Lyanna fancies it looks like a set of mismatched steps made for giants to play on. 

“I’ve always hated this city,” Val says. “It’s filthy and humid and reeks to the high heavens. It’s complete shit. And this fucking castle is worse. There are orphans in the walls listening to my every word. There’s a guard at the door reporting to Jon Arryn and a maid scuttling about to whisper in Tywin Lannister’s ear. Do you know how many times I’ve thought about throwing myself out of one of these towers?”

No one answers. Ned shifts uncomfortably in the shadows. 

“I think Rhaegar knew. Every time it got to be too much he sent me to Dragonstone. Once he even brought me along on some hunting trip. I want to say I hate him, but I wouldn’t be so fucking angry if I didn’t love him.” 

She wipes at her face before she goes on. 

“All my life I just wanted to go home. It hurt, it was this awful ache in my chest that never went away. I wanted to go home so badly, but I didn’t have one to go home to. And then I met Brandon and it went away and it’s hurting again and I was stupid enough to think it wouldn’t ever come back.” 

Ned surprises them all when he is the one to interrupt. 

“You’re a Stark now. Winterfell is your home,” he says. 

Val covers her face with her hand to hide her sobs. Lya sighs and gets up to guide her back onto the bed. She lets Val cry onto her shoulder, rubbing up and down her back all the while. 

“I’ll get us home,” Lya promises.

“Why am I crying?!,” Val wails, her voice muffled by Lyanna’s dress. “I hate this! I don’t ever want to be pregnant again.”

The first Lannister Lyanna can find is Jaime. He’s lounging on a forgotten terrace like a bored god. He never opens his eyes, never breaks the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, but Lya knows better. She’s not a fool anymore. 

“Ser Oswell talked about you a lot,” she says. His hand twitches against the stone floor. There’s a bottle of wine overturned, half hidden under the chaise he’s dragged out into the sun. “He didn’t like that you were made to join so young. He said you should have been able to live your life, and when Arthur asked if he meant the vows or death, he could never answer. I think they knew they were going to die. ‘At least he’s not here,’ they would say.”

She leans over the balcony. This one looks over the sea. Somehow, it makes her think of the desert. A part of them knowing makes her proud. They knew her brother would come for her and they knew he would be her death. A part of it makes her happy. Sated, even. A wolf after the hunt. Mostly it just makes her sad. 

“Valaena talks about you a lot too. You should say goodbye to her. Dorne is just as big and empty as the North. We talked to each other to pass the time. You were her only friend, I think. You and Oswell, but he was more of a father or uncle than a friend.”

“What about Rhaegar?” He slurs. 

“Rhaegar wasn’t anybody’s anything.”

Ser Jaime sighs heavily. She hears the jacquard fabric scratch at his trousers, hears his boots on the stones, and then he’s beside her, his tanned, corded forearms propped up beside her pale skinny ones. 

“We might have made a good match,” she hears herself say. 

He snorts. “I could never love you.”

She snorts too. “I wouldn’t have wanted that. I just would’ve wanted sword lessons and free reign of the stables. You could love whoever you wanted.”

“What do you want now?”

“Same thing you do, I reckon. I want to go home.”

His pretty mouth turns up into a smirk. “You don’t want to curl up in our new king’s bed?”

“No. I know a selfish man when I see one. Rhaegar at least got me off in the beginning.”

Ser Jaime throws back his head and laughs. He really is beautiful. Alive and warm in a way that Rhaegar and Arthur could never have been. Still, something about him is intangible, untouchable like they were. It must be part of being a legend. No one will know them for who they are. It’s sad and lonely and not too far from her own destiny. No one will ever want to know Lyanna Stark. 

“Take me to your father,” she says. She’d planned a speech, but she doesn’t think Jaime Lannister is the type for pretty words. “Your sister wants to be queen. I want to try and make it happen. I want to go home. I want my nephews safe.”

He narrows his cat eyes, looks her up and down. Finally, he reaches some sort of decision and sighs. 

“Alright. I’ll take you to the lion’s den.”

  
The next morning, Lyanna stands tall and proud in the small council’s room. Everything is gold and black and covered in stags. Stannis Baratheon is there, scowling at her like a pesky stray cat. Beside him is Robert. In a rare bout of perceptiveness, he frowns from the three maesters by the door to Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister across from him. 

“Your Grace,” Lord Tywin says. “We’ve brought you here to discuss your marriage to Lady Lyanna.”

“What about it?” King Robert asks suspiciously. 

Lord Jon tries next. “Some news has-“

“I’m barren, Robert,” Lyanna cuts in. She stands taller, refusing to show them any weakness. 

“You can’t know that!” He protests, his face set into a thunderous scowl. 

“I can. Even if I did manage to get pregnant, I’d only die. I’m just not made for it. Val is up and walking and it’s only been two days. It was more than a month before I could get out of bed. My body just isn’t made for it.”

“Well what’s that got to do with anything?” He slams a fist onto the table. “Stannis can make one or-“

“I will not,” Stannis interrupts.

“-I can get some other wench with babe. It doesn’t mean-“

“That’s exactly what it means, Robert!” Jon Arryn cries. “Your rule is fragile. Nobles and peasants alike are outraged at what happened to Elia’s children, Viserys Targaryen is hiding in Essos, and Valaena just gave birth to a son fathered by a Stark. A dragon and a wolf, Robert! There’s never been a union like it.”

“Then Renly-“

“No,” Stannis interrupts. “You already almost starved him, Robert. I watched his belly bloat like some poor orphan child. I will not allow you to be the death of him because you are too selfish-“

“I DO WHATEVER I BLOODY-“

“I WANT TO GO HOME!” Lyanna yells. 

Everyone, even the page against the wall, turns to stare at her. 

“I want to go home,” she repeats, her voice wavering. “I’ve been through so much, Robert. We all have. I never wanted this. I never wanted to be a fucking queen! I wanted to ride horses all day and have a dozen children. Not be laced up in dresses and pretend to smile at stupid ladies who want to slit my throat. I can’t do it, Robert. I wouldn’t even have children to love.”

Robert crosses the room, nearly vaulting over the table, to gather her in his arms. He squeezes her until she can’t breathe, then pulls back to look down into her eyes. His hands are too tight. It makes her think of Arthur and Gerold and Rhaegar. 

“You don’t have to. We can go to Storm’s End and-“

“Who would be king, Robert?!” Lord Jon cries. It sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. 

“Stannis-“

“No!” Stannis says. He stands so abruptly that his chair clatters to the ground. He grinds his teeth and leans over with his fists balled on the table. She’s never seen him look so much like a Baratheon. “This is your duty, Robert. You took the throne, so you must sit it.”

“I don’t want-“

“Then you shouldn’t have taken it!” Stannis argues back. 

The two brothers stare each other down, stags ready to clash antlers. 

“Robert,” Lyanna pleads. 

Robert startles and looks down to see her cowering. His fists grip her tight enough to bruise. He flushes and murmurs an apology, even going so far as to run his hand through her hair, but he never lets her go. Lyanna meets Lord Tywin’s eyes. She gulps down her fear, her pride, and twists in Robert’s hold to peer up at him from under her lashes. 

“Please, Robert. Let me go home. If you ever loved me, let me go home. Let me forget about this. Let me forget about him.”

Robert’s shoulders sag and she knows she has won. 

  
  
He comes to her bed every night until his wedding. She doesn’t mind the first couple of times. She hopes it might help wash away the thick film Rhaegar left on her body. Instead, Robert leaves his own. It builds and builds until the grime coats her skin. She fears she will never be able to wash it off. 

Ned never notices. Father meets her eyes in a silent inquiry, one she declines. There has been enough war. Stannis meets her eyes with accusation, one she can’t bring herself to deny. 

At the wedding feast, Cersei meets her eyes and smirks. Lyanna only raises her glass of wine in solemn commiseration. When they see each other the next day and Lyanna tells her that Rhaegar at least got her off before he fucked her raw, the Queen does not laugh as her brother did.

When Jon Snow meets her eyes, all he has is love. 

  
Lyanna steps off the ship and on to Northern soil and she weeps. She runs straight to the stables, vaults onto an unsaddled horse, and rides until the sun has sunk below the horizon. 

  
Val goes silent at the sight of Winterfell. It has been a short, boisterous journey. The only thing missing is Brandon laughing and telling his ridiculous hunting stories. 

“I can feel it,” Val whispers. 

It’s moments like these that remind Lyanna of who Valaena is. It is easy to forget with her foul mouth and barking laughter. This is the woman who fought the Sword in the Morning. This is the woman who hatched three dragons.

Lyanna glances back at the babe’s carriage. ‘There’s never been a union like it,’ Jon Arryn had said. 

“What does it feel like to you?” Father asks. 

“Like a shadow rising from the earth to greet me.”

Father nods sharply. “Brandon chose well.”

  
Winterfell does not call to Lady Catelyn, but she is sweet and capable. She is exactly the sort of wife Ned needs. Val and Ozzie and Jon make her nervous. She is relieved at their departure despite the royal decrees stating that Ned and his sons will be the Lords of Winterfell. They’re standing on the castle walls, just the two of them, and Lyanna is without her son once more. And it is all for Catelyn Tully’s pride. 

“That attitude won’t earn you any friends here,” Lyanna warns. 

Lady Catelyn halts mid-step. “I beg your pardon?”

“This is the North. What you do determines who you are. Valaena rescued my father and brother. She fought and bled beside them. That day at the tower....” Lyanna lets out a long, deep exhale. “I like you Catelyn, but you couldn’t have done any of that. You wouldn’t have done any of that. And you can’t hate her for it.”

Lady Catelyn spins, and with far more vitriol than Lyanna thought her capable of, hisses, “You don’t know what it’s like. You won’t know what it’s like. I am supposed to be the Lady of Winterfell, but there was the Princess and there’s still you! This place will never be my home. My position, my children’s positions-“

“That’s exactly what I mean! You’re pitching Stark against Stark! You can’t do that! When the cold winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. It wasn’t right of them. I know that, but what’s done is done. She’s a Stark just as much as she is a Targaryen. You can either wallow in it or move on.”

“It wasn’t right! We were betrothed!”

“She was his wife! She was more than his wife, if there can be such a thing. He was going to give it all up for her. You, the North, everything. Father told me. I’m not supposed to tell you, but I think you need to know. You can’t be mad over something that wouldn’t have happened anyway. It was over for you from the moment they met. It’s shitty. I know it’s shitty. But you can either accept the facts and make use of them or you can be bitter about it for the rest of your life.”

Lady Catelyn wipes away her tears with harsh, angry movements. 

“Ned’s a good man,” Lya says. “He’s solemn, always has been, but he’s sweet and kind and smart and everything you could ask for. You can have a home here. You just have to make one for yourself.”

“I’ll never be able to do that with you here. They love you. I don’t know why. I can tell the Prince didn’t take-“

“He sure as hell didn’t let me leave, either!” Lyanna cries, so shrilly that the guard down the way glances over at them. “You don’t get to talk about that. You don’t get to throw that in my face. I let Robert fuck me every night until his wedding for you all. You didn’t know that, did you?”

She pales and shakes her head with wide eyes. 

“Of course you didn’t. You think all men are like Ned when they’re not.” 

It all comes pouring out. Lyanna can’t talk to Val about it. Rhaegar, for all that he was, was her brother. Lyanna wouldn’t want to hear such awful things about any of hers after they were killed. She can’t talk to Father or Ned or even Benjen. They wouldn’t understand. And she’s never had a mother. She knows she shouldn’t say it, but it all comes pouring out anyway. 

“Rhaegar. Rhaegar....he made me love him. He listened and he made me think that I mattered. He liked that I like swords and horses. He told me I could be his Visenya. Sometimes I think even he believed it. Then he made love to me. He was so sweet and gentle. But he came back and I left and...I didn’t want it, but he wasn’t rough. It hurt, but only because he did it so much. 

“Robert...He drinks before. He’s big and he’s strong and he’s drunk. I pity Cersei. I truly do. If I had to pick between them, I think I might have picked Rhaegar. At least he was obsessed with a prophecy and not me. He never hit me, even when I tried to kill him, but I think Robert might have eventually.

“And that makes it all so much worse! I should hate Rhaegar! I do hate him and I feel like I shouldn’t say that Robert was worse-“

“You should,” Catelyn says firmly. Her blue eyes are shining with tears and her lips are pressed in a thin line again. “You should. He hurt you. The Prince did too. And this talk is foolishness. You will never have to choose between two monsters. One of them is dead and the other cannot reach you.”

Lyanna whimpers once before throwing herself at Catelyn and wrapping her in a hug. Catelyn, thank the gods, doesn’t hesitate to hug her back. 

“I haven’t been able to say anything,” she whispers. “Val is his sister and the gods don’t hug you back.”

“Well I do,” Catelyn says. She pulls back and smooths Lyanna’s hair down. “Stay as long as you need, Lya.”

  
She stays until she can no longer take it, until it hurts to think of Jon and she dreams of being locked in Winterfell. Benjen and Father go with her. It is just the three of them and the North. She has never felt so free. 

  
Dragonkeep is everything Lyanna wanted it to be. Father gave his a wife a ruined fortress nestled between the Wolfswood, the Northern Mountains and the Bay of Ice. It is dreary and cold and perfect for Valaena Stark of the House Targaryen. They find her in the small village, dressed in leggings and a tailored tunic with her son strapped to her back. Lya smiles when she sees them. She nearly faints when Jon is placed in her arms. 

  
The dragons remember her. They fly down to sniff at her hair and nip at her arms. Ashara named them on her trip North. The purple one, clearly the leader, is named Dawn. The midnight blue one is named Dusk and the smallest, a smoke grey, is named Winter. They are simple names, but better than Lya could have done. Her son is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, a child of two ancient bloodlines, and she named him Jon. 

She likes them. She likes that they like Jon. She still fears them. 

Benjen joins the Night’s Watch. Theo goes home. Ashara does soon after. Ned and Cat have a son, and two years later, a daughter. Lyanna spends her time equally between Dragonkeep and Winterfell until Val tells her the dragons have grown enough to defend them. 

“Let them come,” she says. 

Lya grins and looks up at the full moon and howls. A dragon roars in answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! No more Lyanna! Yay! The first half of the next chapter is already written (Stannis's POV) and I'm working on the next half. I haven't decided if it's going to be Ser Barristan or Ser Jaime. It'll be whichever flows the best. 
> 
> Every time I update I have to extend the amount of chapters remaining. But now I SWEAR there's just one more chapter (the Greyjoy Rebellion, mostly written) and then the epilogue, which I think will be told from Robb's POV, if he talks to me.
> 
> I'm so excited to move on to Val/Jaime! Some of it is already written. There are a lot of time jumps and it's told only through Jaime's and Jon Snow's POV. I posted the first chapter a couple of months ago if you want to check it out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning that I don’t know shit about ships, boats, sailing, or maritime warfare. I did do quite a bit of research, though. Tell me how I did!

Stannis Baratheon stares out at a sea of fire. Wood cracks. Cannons explode. Men scream. 

Stannis Baratheon fancied himself familiar with death. He thought he knew his old friend very well. He does not. He knows the soft thwack of an arrow, the bright spurt of blood, the heavy thud of a hammer. He knows the long, throbbing ache of hunger. He knows sharp bones and cracked skin. 

He does not know fire.

Ships, massive Ironborn ships, break with one breath of flame. Men shriek, their cries strangled by the smoke in their lungs. Flesh bubbles and melts into a black sludge. The smell. Dear gods, the smell. Is this what Jaime Lannister smelled all those years ago? Is this what drives a man to abandon all sense of honor?

The monstrous beast dives down once more, its midnight scales glinting in the orange flames. There’s a deafening roar, one that shakes his very bones, a long exhale of fire, and then it rises into the clouds of smoke. Try as he might, he cannot make out the small figure perched atop it. 

Stannis sucks in a deep breath. It tastes like burning flesh. 

“FIRE!” He bellows. 

His command is echoed down the line and through the drums. It is unnecessary. They’ve been at it for over two hours. Valaena Stark swoops down on her dragon- her fucking dragon- and the King’s ships fling cannonballs when she disappears. Terror nearly overtakes him each time. He thinks of the broken bodies covered in scarlet shrouds and wonders if she will destroy him too. 

Stannis is familiar with death. He has never feared it until now. 

“Lord Baratheon! Baratheon!”

Stannis turns on his heel to find a skinny sailor struggling to catch his breath. His leather armor is so soaked that even the Redwyne emblem is black. 

“M’lord. To the West. Iron-“ 

They both duck reflexively as the beast roars again. A fresh barrage of screams sounds over the sea. 

“Ironborn speed vessels sailing to the West,” he yells, struggling to be heard over the chaos. “They’re making a break for it in the Sunset Sea.”

“Cowards,” Stannis spits.

The messenger grimaces in guilt, no doubt understanding why a man would flee. Stannis holds no such sympathies. It is one thing to surrender, but another to abandon one’s men to such destruction. 

“Signal the Princess as discussed. Then wave torches to the west.”

The messenger nods and takes off at a run. Stannis takes a moment to look out over the sea. Smoke and flame and wreckage and bodies camouflage the water. It will be roughing sailing, but it must be done. 

“BEAM REACH!” He orders. 

“BEAM REACH!” Davos repeats. 

Their words are echoed across the ships. The bells carry it too, though they are unlikely to be heard. There is the familiar creak of rope, a billow of cloth, and the ship surges northwest. 

It is slow going. Men and wood are crushed under their hulls in sickening death cries. The fire is the worst of it. It is never-ending. Everlasting. 

Soon, the horns of over a hundred ships sound in a monotonous call. Over and over, loud enough to jar his bones, to make his ears ache. He doubles over in an effort to fight the spinning in his head and stomach. There are too many sights and sounds and smells. 

The dragon floats at mast height. It hovers, blocking out the drab sunlight and making soft ripples in the sea. Stannis can just make out the Princess’s steel helmet among the navy ridges and horns. He follows her gaze. From his position, he only sees the first few men stationed on the head, their long torches swooping repetitively to the left. 

There is a shout and she is gone. Even Stannis pauses to watch the beast surge forward in a ripple of dark muscles. 

Davos meets his gaze. “D’ya think it’s the only one?”

“The dragon has three heads,” Stannis hears himself say. 

The closest men halt. They peer up at Stannis with wide, fearful eyes. 

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? GET TO WORK!” 

Everyone scrambles into action, except for Davos, who walks over to stand at Stannis’s shoulder. 

“Will it be war again?” He asks. 

“What do you think this is?” Stannis snaps. 

Davos merely gives him a look that makes Stannis sigh. 

“I was there when she made her vow. The flames jumped seven feet high when her blood spilled into the brazier. She will not raise arms against a Baratheon.”

“That might be so, m’lord, but what about a Lannister?”

Stannis scowls out over the water. “Ours is the Fury, Ser Davos. Ours is the Fury.” He spits over the side of the deck. “We keep attacking until I see white flags flying on every Ironborn vessel.”

“Yes, milord.”

Half an hour later, they’ve hardly made it three miles. The wind has died down at the Ironborn have rested from the Princess’s attacks. Stannis is exhausted. His nerves have been weighing on him since the Princess jumped onto his ship the previous night. The dragon had appeared silently with only a white bedsheet visible against its dark scales. He hadn’t known what to think when Valaena Stark slid off the hovering creature and landed on his ship deck with a thud. Redwyne nearly shat himself. He hadn’t, thankfully, and had even worked up the courage to accept a flight back to his own vessel. 

A cheer thunders from his left. The men quieten as they turn to the horizon. The dragon soars low, just above the ships in steady beats of its leather wings. Something dangles from its claws. The rancorous applause surges from every ship until Stannis is very suddenly staring at its belly. The damned thing is a big as his ship. It’s black claws, as long as his forearm, pry. Several pieces of a man crash onto the deck. 

“TIRED!” the Princess yells. Her head, now free of its helmet, pokes around the beast’s thick neck. “ONE ROUND. TOGETHER OR NO?”

“TOGETHER!” He screams back.

She waves a hand and flies off.

Stannis turns on his heel. He tries to yell, but his voice gives out halfway through the second word. He speaks to Davos instead. “The beast is tired. The Princess will make one final round before boarding ship. We attack at her command.” He stops, considering something. “Have a barrel of water and towels brought up for the Princess.”

Davos nods and steps forward to bellow orders. Drums and runners immediately begin relaying the command. Valaena Stark, thank the gods, has enough sense to give them time to communicate. Robert certainly wouldn’t if he were up on the blasted creature. 

Stannis walks over to the delivered cargo. The pieces do not match. There are two left arms for one, and a disproportionally skinny leg. The largest part is all that matters. There is only a handsome head, broad shoulders, and a wide chest. A Greyjoy, by the looks of it. Or what’s left of him, anyway. 

“That’s Euron Greyjoy,” Ser Davos says. His lips are pressed into a thin line. “I don’t like this, milord. I don’t like it all, but that beast has done the world a favor.“

“ATTACK!” A voice calls in the distance.

“ATTACK!” Another repeats, this one much closer. 

Sure enough, a dark shadow approaches from the south. It rises abruptly, flying so high that even a hint of wing is hidden by the smoke and ruin. Then, just as suddenly, it reappears. It’s massive wings are spread as it glides headfirst toward the Ironborn fleet. 

It roars, long and loud and fearsome. 

The ships attack just as the dragon breathes fire. 

A wall of white flame sears so bright they all turn their heads. Heat reaches them even so far across the water. Still yet, the cannons fire and the dragon cries out for blood. 

Decades or perhaps moments later, Stannis signals to Davos. 

“HOLD FIRE!” Davos thunders. 

The assault comes to a slow halt. He cannot see what has happened. There are no sounds of life. There is only the warm rush of flames and the creaking of wood. There is nothing on the sea but fire. 

“Seven hells,” a soldier whispers. Another says a prayer to the Mother. 

A great screech jolts then out of their horror. The dragon flies low and steady towards Stannis’s ship. It’s maneuvers itself so that it’s right side is directly above the forecastle. The men gasp in wonder as the tips of its wings crash against the sails. 

Valaena Stark throws her legs over as if she is dangling her feet off of a dock. Several soldiers to stand beneath her, holding their arms out in a net. She lets herself fall. The men buckle their legs when she lands, but she is quickly on her feet. Her dragon flies off with a last scream.

Stannis takes the time to examine her as she stretches out her stiff legs. He’s forgotten how tall she is. He and Robert, well over six feet, hardly encounter enough men that can see over their shoulders. It’s beyond strange to look a woman in the eye without craning his neck. Her hair, once a dusting of silver, is now braided down to her waist. Oddly enough, they share the same straight, slightly aquiline nose. Stannis had nearly forgotten they are second cousins. 

“Lady Stark,” he greets. 

He signals to the towels resting on a barrel of sea water. She immediately begins washing off the ash and soot. 

“Are you hungry? I have salted pork and ship’s biscuits.”

She laughs a little. He never remembered her laughing. Granted, he hardly remembers her before the Rebellion at all. She was of an age with Robert. It was they that played together when the Baratheons visited the capital while Stannis was stuck with maids and septas. 

“No captain’s delicacies for Stannis Baratheon?“

“No, Lady Stark.”

She laughs again, though this one has a twinge of bitterness. “You’re the only person in the world that calls me that.”

“You married Rickard Stark, therefore you are Lady Stark.”

“And that, Lord Stannis, is why you are my favorite.”

He frowns. Her favorite what? 

The Princess splashes water on her face one final time before turning to face him. 

“I’ll take some pork and wine, please.”

He nods and a boy runs off through the gathering crowd. She looks out at them all, her violet eyes lingering on each of their faces. None of them are foolish enough to kneel, thank the gods, but most bow their heads deeper than necessary.

“These are Dragonstone men,” she says. 

“I am Lord of Dragonstone.”

She grins. “Better you than me, cousin.”

Thankfully, Ser Davos appears with her food. Stannis doesn’t quite know what to think of her. She’s off putting. He can’t decide if her words are the flowery doublespeak of court. He doubts it, but he can understand why she might hate him. Then again, she had vowed to never usurp his brothers and their children.

Stannis turns to his men, shaking off his thoughts. “Send word to Redwyne. He’s probably worked it out, but I’ll take no chances. Lady Stark, can you offer a report?”

She wipes her mouth on her arm, then clears her throat. 

“It’s difficult to see anything, especially with all the smoke,” she says, “But I’d guess they’re down to nearly a third of their fleet- before that last run, mind you- and at least one Greyjoy tried to flee. Did I get him? I was just looking for someone big and dark-headed, but that’s half of the North.”

“You brought back most of Euron Greyjoy, Princess,” Ser Davos says. 

Her face alights with a sort of disbelieving glee. Several of the men shuffle back.

“We’ve only lost twelve ships on my end,” Stannis announces, “and most-“

“Really? Only twelve?” Valaena Stark interrupts. 

“On my end,” he bites out. 

She grins again. “Wicked! Exactly why you’re my favorite! Stannis Baratheon gets shit done.”

He scowls, even as his men give a cheerful shout.

“We advance when the fires die down,” Stannis says, raising his voice. “If a man manages to climb aboard, accept his surrender, but do not go out of your way to rescue any Ironborn. We keep up the attack until we see white sails. Understood?”

The men voice their agreement and quickly go back to their stations. The Princess sidles over to Stannis and Ser Davos. 

“They’ll probably surrender,” Ser Davos says. 

Valaena Stark nods. “I’m not well versed in naval warfare, but I’d wager they’re on the run right now.”

Stannis grunts. It’s more than possible, but he isn’t taking any chances. Either there will be white banners or there will be bloodshed. 

“Lord Stannis-“

“You call the King by his given name.” He isn’t sure why he says it. He isn’t even sure where the thought came from. 

She raises her brows. “Yes,” she says slowly, as if trying to decide how to piece her words together. “I don’t like or respect your brother. That, and I suppose I’ve never really respected authority figures, having the Mad King as a father. And having the gods do all of their bullshit. Those two things make him a Robert to me. I like and respect you, though. I’d like to know you as Stannis, if you’d like to know me as Val.”

Stannis mulls it over before deciding on “Valaena.”

She nods solemnly. “Well, Stannis, how would you like to ride a dragon?”

Jaime knew, objectively, that there are dragons. It began as a rumor. Ships and merchants that sailed to the Shadow Tower reported strange things. It was dismissed as the idiocy of simple pirates. Then a traveling brother of the Night’s Watch told strange tales in taverns. After that, Lord Varys decided to take matters into his own hands. His little birds came back with the brand of a spy on their arms and stories of winged, fire breathing beasts on their missing tongues. 

Jaime knew that dragons had been born into the world again. The King knew. Tywin Lannister knew. Everyone knew. It is another thing to see one. 

It is a massive creature. Her deep purple body is the size of two warhorses and her wingspan he can’t quite wrap his head around. All of his lessons come rushing back. To think that Balerion could cast cities in shadow. This beast is already unfathomable and to know that it will keep growing after Jaime is dead...

The King had raged like he hadn’t since the Rebellion when the rumors were confirmed. He wanted to kill the Princess and her dragonspawn and her hellbeasts. And then Varys had told him that they were too large to kill. They’d been hiding in the northern mountains for four years. Beyond that, Lyanna Stark had taken to living with Princess in her keep, which was nearly impossible to reach anyway. Eventually, Ned Stark came down to the Capital to soothe the King’s worries. 

‘They are of the North,’ he’d said. ‘They’ve burrowed homes in the cold mountainside and roost atop the Wall when it pleases them. They mean no harm to you because the North means no harm to you. Leave Val in peace. Lya’s taken a liking to Brandon’s bastard by Ashara. Let them raise their sons in peace.”

Ned Stark hadn’t said anything about the sons in living in peace. 

A little white haired boy stands at the dragon’s shoulder. His wide eyes seem that much more grey with the violet beast behind him. The dragon’s monstrous head looms threateningly at his side, swaying this way and that to keep a scarlet eye on the men surrounding her. 

Barristan whips out his blade without a thought. Trant follows suit, though his sword does wobble. Jaime, however, thinks of his father and all the scathing remarks he would have about bullheaded fools. With those words in mind, he rips a spear out of a soldier’s hands 

The boy pales, but he pushes down his fear quickly enough. He comes forward with his shoulders back, spine straight, and in a high voice says, “Have you seen my mother?”

Jaime laughs. He can’t help it. It’s all so ridiculous. A massive, fire breathing beast has landed in the middle of the King’s army and it’s just a green boy looking for his mother. He laughs so hard he has to use the stolen spear to stay upright. 

“Get yourself together, man!” The King roars. 

Jaime tries.He truly does. It’s all just so preposterous. Tyrion will never believe it. 

The King strides forward confidently, that massive warhammer of his ready to swing. Jaime sobers up quickly. An image flashes across Jaime’s mind: brain and bone matted into silver hair, a gaping hole carved out of brown skin, a halo of black curls framing busted eyes. 

“OSRIC STARK!”

The deep, booming voice cuts through Jaime like a blade. He comes to, realizing that he has stalked halfway to the King. Across from him, Barristan meets his gaze. For the first time in six years, there is no judgement in the old knight’s eyes. There is pain. Sympathy. Confusion. He is a man torn between his honor and his morals. 

Jaime had been too, once. A king died for it. 

“OSRIC STARK!”

Behind the Lord Commander, the wall of steel parts. A tall grey haired man shoves through the Baratheon soldiers. Rickard Stark, though furious, seems younger than he had in King’s Landing. He still yet moves with the grace of a practiced killer. Jaime would have liked to face him in his prime. He would have liked to face Brandon Stark in his prime even more.

Jaime thinks about the Tower of Joy nearly every night. He wonders. He asks questions he can’t answer.

“OSRIC STARK!” Lord Rickard bellows. The boy shrinks in on himself, cowering next to his dragon. “BOY I AM GOING TO WHIP YOU TO THE BONE!”

“Pop-“

“I AM GOING TO TAN YOUR HIDE AND THEN I AM GOING TO HAND YOU TO YOUR MOTHER!”

Osric Stark nearly melts into the ground at the threat. “Pop, please-“

“AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT WE’LL DO THEN? CAN YOU GUESS?”

“Pop, I’m sor-“

“I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU TO ROOSE BOLTON, BOY!”

Osric Stark gasps and steps back into the embrace of his beast. It jerks it’s head around, the red eye swiveling from the King to Rickard Stark. Old Stark, the fool, stares right back. Everyone holds their breath. Even Robert shuffles out of the way of the dragon’s mouth. 

Eventually, the dragon huffs and swings it’s head out of the way. It goes back to eyeing the King and his warhammer. 

“So help me, you’ll sleep under the flayed skin of your ancestors and think about the SHEER IDIOCY OF WHAT YOU’VE DONE, YOU STUPID BOY! WHERE IS YOUR BROTHER?!”

“Aunt Lya caught him-“

“Praise the gods for small mercies, I suppose. Come here, boy.”

Tentatively, Osric Stark steps forward, never looking up from his boots. His grandfather slaps him upside the head before steering him by the back of the neck. Jaime winces. He remembers how that feels. The shame. The gut-wrenching anticipation. 

“This is your king,” Lord Stark says. “Kneel.”

The boy throws himself onto one knee. “Your Grace,” he pauses, peering up through pale lashes. “I, uh, I pledge the services of myself and Dawn to you. I...I...oh! By earth and water, bronze and iron, I swear it. I swear it by ice and fire.”

“Dawn?” The King demands, scrutinizing the boy carefully. 

“Aunt Ash named him. She named them all. There’s Dawn and Dusk, he’s Mum’s, and Winter who will probably be Jon’s since it was his father. I think they’re stupid names, but I wasn’t even born yet so I couldn’t have named them. I would have called them Meraxes and Joramun and Ice. That’s much scarier.”

Seven hells. He’s just a babe. A little boy still caught up in stories and names. But so was Rhaenys. And Aegon hadn’t been old enough to understand stories. 

The King looks down at him over his thick black beard. 

“Do you swear it by the old gods and the new?” He asks threateningly. 

Osric Stark scrunches his face up. “Well, I only follow the old gods, so I don’t know what good it’ll do, but I’ll-”

Osric Stark is cut off by a long, loud, harrowing screech. Dawn answers with one of his own, throwing his horned head back and revealing sharp black teeth. Everyone turns and cranes their neck. There, high above their heads, is a dark silhouette against the pale sky. It grows and grows at a miraculous speed. Men clamor and fight and shout, desperate to clear a path for yet another dragon. 

It is far faster than it has any right to be. Jaime barely has enough time to rush to the King’s side before it lands on the ground, clumps of mud and grass kicking up under its claws. Dawn rumbles and takes a slow step to greet his sister. 

Valaena Targaryen slides from her dragon’s neck. Her hair has grown back out and she is dressed in black and grey. She searches the crowd of men with wild violet eyes. Jaime is surprised when someone else stumbles off the blue beast. Robert is too, if his indignant sputtering is anything to go by. 

The Princess does not cry out with relief. She does not rush to her son and gather him in her arms. Her trek across the clearing is slow and methodical, Stannis Baratheon a solid wall of muscle at her shoulder. Jaime raises his brows. He never took her for a Tywin Lannister.

She does not break her son’s frightened stare until she reaches the King. Only then does she look away. She curtsies hastily.

“King Robert. I bring news of victory,” she says. 

The men are too tense to celebrate as they might have done. 

Stannis gives his own quick bow before launching into a droll explanation. It’s like the man didn’t just step off a fucking dragon. Even the boy had been dazed when he first slid off and landed on stiff, short legs.

Jaime watches as Osric Stark stares at them all. His hair is the only bit of Targaryen in him. The rest is all Stark. It’s probably for the best. It might be the only way he lives to see his balls drop. 

“But why the bleeding hells did you just come off a dragon, Stannis?!” The King cries. 

“She offered.”

The King breaks. He throws his head back in thunderous laughter. Rickard Stark and the Northern lords that have appeared behind him visibly relax. Jaime, however, does not loosen the grip on his spear. He remembers Robert standing over the shrouded bodies and cursing them for dragonspawn. 

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Robert says. 

“Three fourths of the Iron Fleet is destroyed,” Stannis grinds out. “Euron Greyjoy is dead and his brother Victarion will soon be captured. Balon Greyjoy might not know of Valaena’s dragons. We need to act quickly.”

“This can be settled without bloodshed, Robert,” Ned Stark intones. 

“Pah! Without bloodshed. The cowards! Very well. Valaena and her son will-“

“No.”

Everyone’s heads swivel to the Princess. Osric Stark tenses. His fingers wrap around his grandfather’s wrinkled hand in tight grip. 

“My son stays here.”

“Your son pledged his services-“

Robert’s lips snap shut as Valaena unsheathes her sword. Something terrible and warm rushes through Jaime’s chest when he realizes those are not dragon wings on the hilt, but bat wings. That is Oswell Whent’s sword. Oswell Whent and his crooked nose and his dark humor. He would not have stood for this. He and Arthur would be at Valaena’s side. 

Almost subconsciously, Jaime glances at Ser Barristan. The Lord Commander looks back at him with wet eyes. 

When had it all gone to shit? The Throne Room? The Tower? Harrenhal? The first time Jaime enveloped himself in his twin sister? 

The King scoffs. “What? No fierce words? No speech about being raised by the greatest swordsmen to ever live?” He spits on the ground. 

“No, Robert. That part of me died with Brandon.” She swings Ser Oswell’s sword once, twice, loosening up her wrist. “Will we dance?”

“I am the King!”

“Aye, but I’m a mother.”

The Lord of Winterfell prowls forward, tension settling over the crowd with each of his footsteps. He cuts an impressive figure, an inch or two over six feet tall, clad in armor engraved with wolves, and a long sword strapped to his back. Jaime doesn’t know what the Old Wolf is capable of. There were tales from the war, but rumors take on a life of their own. Especially when the North and Dorne are involved. 

Not that it matters, really. Jaime made up his mind almost an hour ago. He’ll not subject Cersei and the children to the horrors of dragonfire. He’ll not subject another babe to the horrors of Robert Baratheon.

“I ripped apart the seven kingdoms for my daughter,” Lord Rickard says, his voice carrying out over the hilltop. “I’ll burn them down for my grandson. Think, Robert. You have the wolves and the dragons on your doorstep. Do you really want them out for your blood?”

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan says. Everyone turns to him in surprise. “It is the Ironborn that threaten your throne. Lady Stark only wants to protect her son. Pyke is threat. Only Pyke.”

“Oh, fuck it all. I don’t need your bloody dragons. I’ll destroy without them. Go to your backwoods keep, Valaena, and if I see anyone with silver hair I’m cracking their skulls open.”

It is not Valaena that speaks. It is not Rickard. It is not even a dragon that roars in protest. 

Ser Barristan Selmy throws his helm at the King’s feet. His white cloak floats softly to land beside it. 

“I am a knight. I swore holy vows to the gods. I stood by while one king killed innocents. I will not taint my honor again. I will take the Black before I sully my soul for another madman.”

Jaws drop as he stomps over to stand apart from the northern lords. 

Jaime laughs. It echoes through the clearing, bouncing off the armored men and the scaled beasts. He laughs until he’s leaning on the spear again. 

“YOU THINK IS FUNNY, LANNISTER?!” The King roars. His face is as red as Cersei’s dresses, the children’s shrouds, as Rhaegar’s capes. 

Jaime saunters over. He removes helm first, and it feels like he is breathing for the first time in years. 

“So many vows. They make you swear and swear. Obey the King. Obey your father. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. But what if your father despises the King? What if the King massacres the innocent? It’s too much. No matter what you do, you’re foresaking one vow or another.

“I still hear Aerys in my dreams. ‘Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat. I’ll give him naught but ashes.’ 

“I came upon Rossart first. Everyone forgets I slew him. I slew Aerys before he could send another message to the pyromancers. Days later, I hunted down the others and slew them as well. Belis offered me gold, and Garigus wept for mercy. Well, a sword’s more merciful than fire but I don’t think Garigus much appreciated the kindness I showed him. None of you did. 

Jaime throws his helm at Robert’s feet. 

“The wildfire’s still there, hidden in a hundred caches under the city. Give Cersei my love before you go looking for them. I wouldn’t want you to die before you can pass on my message.”

The cloak comes next. It feels as though he is removing another person. Hundreds of pounds lift from his shoulders. 

“I’ll be keeping my sword,” he says. “I’m not familiar with Northern steelwork. 

With that, Jaime takes his place at Valaena’s other side. Rickard Stark raises a thick grey brow. 

“Well I’m certainly not taking the Black”.

Jaime regrets his decision as soon as they arrive back at Dragonkeep. Peasants stare at him with hard, suspicious eyes glinting in their dirty faces. It’s even colder than the rest of the North here in the shadow of the mountains. One of the winged beasts screeches far overhead as it flies around a cliff. 

A tiny brunette pushes through the small crowd. She pulls up short at the sight of Jaime. Her miniature slams into her arse at the abrupt halt. 

“Well!” Lyanna Stark says, her brows high. “When I said we’d be a good match, I never expected you to take me up on it.”

“MAMA LYA!”

Osric Stark speeds past Jaime and tackles her legs. She remains upright in a surprising display of strength. The brown haired boy steps out from behind Lyanna and calmly walks to Princess Valaena. She kneels down and peers into his grey eyes with solemnity. 

“Hello, Jon,” she says quietly. 

“I tried to stop Oz. I truly did, but he got away from M-“ He glances up at Jaime guiltily. “From Auntie.”

“It’s alright, Jon. You’re not your brother’s keeper. Only Winter’s.” She smiles as if she made a jest. “This is Ser Jaime Lannister. He’ll be staying with us for a while.”

Jaime tilts his head, surveying the boy. “You switched out him and the corpse.”

“We did,” Valaena says. 

The boy’s grey eyes widen. 

“He looks just like Eddard.”

“I count myself lucky that Oz got my hair.”

“Any more princes or princesses I should know about? Is Viserys Targaryen hiding in the dragon caves?”

“Nah. Just us and the people.”

He looks around to find that the villagers have returned to their business, except for a few children that are waiting to bombard Osric with questions. 

“What do you even do up here?” He asks scathingly. 

“Fight and fuck, mostly.”

Jaime grins despite himself. Father is going to be furious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing anything out at sea. I'd really like feedback on it. 
> 
> Also, I lied. (Again.) The next chapter, the epilogue, is going to be from Sansa's POV. Probably. But it will definitely be the last one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So neither Robb or Sansa would speak to me but Willas would 🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️ Ask the muses, idk why.

A tall, silver-haired woman treads across the deck of a ship restlessly. With her strange hair and steel armor shining in the sun, she could pass for something other than human. Something more. Something wild and unnatural.

It was not always so. She was rather plain once. She remembers being shorter, rounder. Forgettable. That is almost all she lets herself remember. She made herself forget the rest decades ago. She trained herself to recall facts in a detached manner, ignoring the memories and emotions that came with them. She does not even remember her old name. She may as well not have had one. It is easier that way.

Val Stark glances up at the cloudy sky fretfully. Seagulls flap in the late summer breeze and the sails of the ship rustle gently. A very tall, very stern man leans against the mast, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His blue eyes track her fretful movements.

“You are better than this,” he says.

A short, brunette woman in men’s clothing frowns. The fat bald man at her side looks to the heavens for mercy.

“You will be just as worried when it is your daughter,” Val snaps.

Stannis Baratheon grunts. “I never should have let you give her that damnable egg.”

A nasty smirk pulls at Val’s mouth. “That little dragon of hers will be the only thing that keeps her on the throne.”

“I may yet have a son,” Stannis bites out, his hands dropping to his side. “I did not suffer through that divorce to-“

“I wasn’t aware you loved Selyse so. Please accept my deepest apologies.”

Lyanna spins on her heel to keep from laughing. She does a lot of laughing these days. When Jaime Lannister returned from Casterly Rock three years ago, Lyanna began sneaking into his rooms at night. They soon became inseparable. Jaime has since taken to calling himself Lord Stark, especially in the presence of poor Ned.

Oh, Ned. Val glances to the southwest where poor, sweet Ned is lying in a black cell. She wants nothing more than to burn the whole city down and take him home, but that is what her father would have done. Valaena takes great pride in her sanity. Besides, Varys might very well kill her if she ruins all of their elaborate plans.

Valaena takes pride in a many great things about herself. Some might say it is a fault, but she doesn’t see it as such. She has every right to be proud. She set goals and she accomplished them. She wanted to be a fighter, so she learned to fight. She wanted to escape King’s Landing, so she escaped. She wanted to build her own home, so she did. She wanted to change the world, so she did. Insomuch as it could be changed, anyway. Some things, she has learned, truly are set in stone.

Fate is a cruel mistress to demand those fixed points in time. Jon Snow was mean to be born amidst a war. Danaerys Targaryen was meant to grow up alone and afraid. Ned Stark was meant to go South and learn a terrible truth.

Brandon Stark was meant to die. That is perhaps the worst of them all.

“Valaena!”

“Hm?”

Lyanna’s scowl softens. “I don’t like you here.”

Val and Varys meet each other’s gazes. She hasn’t had to wear her mask in decades. Best to don it early, to acclimate to the itching and the tugging lest the facade break. She is thankful the boys will not have to endure it for too long. Oz still looks at her strangely when the Greyjoy Rebellion is brought up. It was the first and only time he saw his mother be Princess Valaena Targaryen instead of Val Stark.

Brandon had melted her ice, had left her raw and defenseless, and then he’d died. She might not have survived if not for Oz and Dragonkeep.

“We all have our roles to play,” Varys says.

“We all have our duties,” Stannis retorts.

Valaena groans. “I’m not marrying you Stannis,” she says for what feels like the thousandth time. She’ll say it a thousand more if that’s what’s it takes. “I will not be your queen.”

Surprisingly, Stannis does not argue. Instead, he reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a piece of parchment. He unfolds it and reads in his clear voice:

“My brother abandoned his pregnant wife and young daughter to a mad king-“

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Val whispers, torn between amusement and exasperation.

“He _abandoned his duties_. He _abandoned his people_.

“Fight for them. Fight for the future. _Fight for what this realm could be_. And at the end, if you are weary and alone, come to me in the north. _We can work together to build a home of our own_ far from the greed of southern kings.”

“You brought your damn receipts, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Look, Stannis. I can’t be queen. I just can’t. Maybe I could have years ago, before....before Brandon. But he showed me what life is supposed to be like. It’s not supposed to be what it is down here.”

“People like us do not get to have what we want.”

“It’s not just that!” She cries, her patience snapping. “It will warp me. It will twist me into something cruel and violent. I will be a sane Aerys Targaryen. I will be Maegor the Cruel come again. This mask I wear will replace my true face and the realm will suffer for it.”

Lord Varys watches her sharply, thoughtfully, a cold contrast to Lyanna’s concerned expression.

“Then don’t wear it.”

Val spins to face her dear friend, her wild sister.

“Don’t wear it,” Lyanna says simply. “You’re a dragon rider and one of the best swordsmen in the seven kingdoms. No one can touch you. Be yourself. Be the woman Brandon loved.”

A slow, wicked smile blooms on Valaena’s lips. Oh, she’ll be Val alright. She’ll be Val and Stannis will beg for another bride. As if sensing her thoughts, Stannis sighs and looks to the skies above Essos for another bride.  
  


When Willas and his grandmother agreed to swear fealty to the new queen in King’s Landing, he hadn’t expected this. He had expected the three hulking dragons sunbathing on the roofs and courtyards, the peacocking of lords from every part of the seven kingdoms, the jovial rancor and the suspicious glares. He had not expected to find the road lined with heads. He had not expected to be greeted by corpses that turned his stomach. And he certainly did not expect direwolves.

Ser Amory Lorch is nailed to wooden x at the western foot of the Iron Throne. Stab wounds encircle a shredded hole from which his shining, wet intestines spill. Willas takes one glance to the right, at Gregor Clegane, and looks away. He’d rather focus on the flies swarming Lorch’s guts. Father, however, can’t seem to look away from the Mountain.

Just behind and between the corpses, three young men lounge on the stairs of the Iron Throne. One, silver haired and massive, can be none other than Osric Stark, the little boy who almost started another rebellion. He certainly is not a child anymore. He is rather like a fair, feral Renly. The solemn one on his left has the Stark look. Willas might assume him to be the Stark heir if it were not for stocky redhead on Osric Stark’s right, who is undoubtedly of Tully descent. Jon Snow and Robb Stark, then.

He might not have known the bastard’s name or been able to tell him apart from his cousin three moons ago, but the North has suddenly become very interesting and very important. Every lord in the southern kingdoms has brushed up on their Northern histories.

The Iron Throne is just as fearsome and ugly as Grandmother described it. The woman sitting it is undoubtedly fearsome, but she is certainly not ugly. Valaena Targaryen, or perhaps Stark, has long limbs and straight silver hair that curtains her austere features. A Valyrian steel circlet set with large square rubies rests upon her brow. It makes her eyes shine a bright violet. Three direwolves rest at her feet: a massive albino, a lean grey one, and a black one speckled with brown.

In a slow wave, all of Willas’s family drops in supplication. He and Grandmother cannot kneel, not truly, so they settle for low bows. The Queen stares at him harshly. His heart begins to race, his eyes darting from the direwolves to her wild son. Osric Stark grins back.

“I am disappointed,” the Queen says. Willas opens his mouth to say something, anything, but she cuts him off. “I told my advisors that I wanted the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms as my consort. To the seventh hell with riches and skill, I said. I have enough of those. I want something pretty to look at. They offered dear Jaime, of course. Oberyn Martell too, who had the gall to recommend my sweet nephew Robb.”

The young red-headed man cringes, while his cousins smirk.

“So many names and not one of them was Willas Tyrell. My advisors have failed me, it seems.”

Willas bows his head nervously. This situation is growing more bizarre by the moment. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she says, obviously amused. “You arrived yesterday, did you not? Are you and your family well rested?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“So you would not mind beginning the talks?”

Willas glances over at his grandmother, who nods.

“No, Your Grace.”

“Excellent!” She stands from her throne, prompting the direwolves to yawn and stretch. They are just as regal and terrifying as she is. “Then I ask the chamber pots to be brought in and the sphincters to be fetched.”

Willas gapes stupidly as the once empty room immediately bursts into action. Servants dart to and fro, carrying cushioned chairs and arranging them in a semi-circle. Four large benches are placed at the head. Grandmother chooses a seat in the middle of the chairs and the Tyrells scurry to follow her lead. Willas is too full of nerves to pretend to relax. He remains standing, centering himself on the dull pain of his leg.

A side door opens. A gaunt, bearded man enters, his steel eyes cutting across the room with solemnity. He must be Eddard Stark. Willas is about to introduce himself when a flash of red hair catches his eye. A young woman, as tall as Lord Stark, is deep in conversation with another Targaryen, this one covered in dragons. Baby dragons! A grey and brown direwolf trots begins them. A fourth direwolf! There must be one for every blood Stark under the age of twenty.

Willas stares. Father would call it unseemly. Grandmother would call it a unwise. Willas doesn’t give a damn. The damn girl is literally draped in dragon babes and a direwolf follows at her heels. There’s nothing one can do except stare.

The Targaryen catches his eye and raises a brow. After much difficulty, Willas manages to gather himself. He is acutely aware of the echoing thud of his cane as he approaches. Both women and Lord Stark glance at it, but they are collected enough to not wince or cringe. Instead, they meet him halfway. Willas is rather shocked and infinitely grateful. It is rare that anyone, especially those so noble, are accommodating to his condition.

“Lord Tyrell,” Lord Stark says in his thick brogue.

“Please, call me Willas. There are several Lord Tyrells here today.”

Lord Stark’s thick beard twitches in his version of a smile. It’s a rather pitiful one. Willas hadn’t quite believed the tales of the Quiet Wolf, but it seems he should have. The man is as stoic as winter itself, nothing like his jovial son.

“Then you shall call me Eddard. This is my daughter, Sansa, and Princess Danaerys.”

Willas bows his head in greeting to the women. Sansa’s curtsy puts even Margaery’s to shame while Princess Danaerys merely nods.

“Please forgive my impertinence, my ladies. I hadn’t expected dragon hatchlings and direwolves.”

He unabashedly surveys the direwolf. She is smaller than her litter mates, but no less regal. Her golden eyes are particularly mesmerizing. They hold an intelligence he hasn’t encountered in any of his hounds. She’s nothing like anything he’s ever seen before.

“Willas Tyrell,” a familiar, trolling voice sounds. “Surrounded by the most beautiful women in the world and he is entranced by their pets.”

Oberyn Martell saunters over, the rubies in his tunic glinting with the movement. Eddard Stark stiffens minutely. Willas knows better than to pay Oberyn any mind. Give the Prince an inch and he’ll take a mile.

“I couldn’t help myself, old friend. See here, at the shoulders? She has the build for lateral movement not found in other canines. She can swipe at us like a cat with a mouse.“ He bows to Lady Sansa once more. “A beautiful companion for a beautiful woman.”

She blushes a deep, lovely pink.

“SANSA!” Osric Stark bellows. “Stop flirting and come over here!”

The poor girl flushes as red as her hair. She glances up at her father with an endearing mix of outrage and humiliation, but he only smiles kindly.

“Your cousin is right. We should all take our seats,” he says diplomatically.

Willas nods. To his surprise, Princess Danaerys hooks her arm in Lady Sansa’s and pulls her along. The green dragon hops from her shoulder to the other girl’s. Oberyn hums at the sight.

“Do you think your daughter will become a dragonrider?” He asks.

The other two walk slowly so that Willas is not left behind. He is once again surprised by Lord Stark’s kindness. So many grown men have rushed ahead and feigned ignorance like petulant children.

“I doubt it,” Eddard Stark says. “I think they only sense her gentleness.”

Oberyn scowls. “You should not have brought such a girl to the capital.”

Willas very pointedly does not look back at the Mountain, at the thick spear sticking out of his bottom.

“Sansa may be gentle, but she is strong,” Eddard rebukes. “And I was desperately trying to keep the peace. I did not wish to fight another war.”

Robert Baratheon had named Eddard as Hand and betrothed their children in an attempt at peace. In the end, it turned out that Prince Joffrey wasn’t a prince at all, but a bastard. The boy had been foolish enough to try to sentence the man to death despite his mother’s pleading. Somehow, a message was relayed and two dragons swooped down from the clouds, far from the useless scorpions on the city walls. Most of the Kingsguard, Joffrey Waters, and several dozen spectators had burned to death. Countless others had been trampled in the ensuing panic. Even now the stairs of the Sept are charred black.

“We all are, Lord Eddard. It is why we are here,” Willas says.

Eddard Stark nods and leaves them for one of the heavy benches. The albino direwolf bends it’s monstrous head to lick at his hand in greeting while the queen slings an arm over his shoulder and kisses the crown of his head much like an older brother would. Ned Stark suffers through it dutifully. His wife smiles on from the left bench, where she is sandwiched between her brother and her uncle.

With the North and the Riverlands on the benches, the other kingdoms arrange themselves with no small amount of difficulty. The Greyjoys, a plain, fierce family, claimthe most distant seats on side of the semi-circle. The two Lannisters in attendance mirror them.

Oberyn sighs and pats Willas on the back. He joins his brother and paramour where they have sat across from the Tyrells and the Lannisters. Willas takes his own chair and massages his leg as a handsome old woman from the Vale leans over to whisper in Prince Doran’s ear.

Finally, Stannis Baratheon strides into the room. Only an old man, his daughter, and his brother are with him. They have the smallest party except for Lord Tyrion. Willas can’t work out if it is a slight or simply Stannis’s way. The Queen is obviously in favor of the latter. She greets their arrival with enthusiasm, bending down to kiss the girl on her ruined cheek. Several people gasp.

They choose the last seats, the ones directly on Willas’s right and nearest to the Starks. Renly sits beside him with a jovial smile, predictably searching for Loras over his shoulders. Willas rolls his eyes. There’s not a bone of subtlety in either of them.

“Very well,” the Queen says. She’s dressed in a black tunic embroidered with grey wolves and red dragons. “It looks like we’re all here. We’re not ones for small talk in the North, so I’ll just get on with it. Our day will begin with the trials of the Lannisters. GUARDS!”

A side door creaks open. A company of three people, all golden and tall and beautiful, are led to the center of the circle and forced to their knees. Only the young girl is free of chains.

“I suppose we’ll deal with the most recent crime first. Cersei Lannister, you are accused of cuckolding your king and husband with your own twin brother. Your children were not royal heirs of the House Baratheon, but products of incest. What say you?”

“You are a product of incest,” Cersei spits. Her hair is shorn close to her scalp and the right side of her face is covered in angry burns. Some have taken to calling her Lady Hound.

Even the scribe pauses to gape at her impertinence. Lady Cersei might have been stunning, despite the scars, if it were not for the ugly rage contorting her features.

“Aye, I am,” the Queen concedes. “But my brother and I fought hard to not have to fuck each other. You did the exact opposite. And my parents, though siblings, were married. You were wed to the king and your brother was a Kingsguard. Ned, if you would.”

Lord Stark strides forward, his heavy boots thudding with finality.

“It is my belief that Cersei Lannister conspired to kill the King in order to put her bastard son on the Throne.”

“What proof do you have?” Tywin Lannister demands coldly.

“None,” He admits. “I only want the seven kingdoms to know what a vile creature your daughter is.”

His grey eyes cut into them all as he looks out into the assembled crowd.

“I went to Cersei, against the counsel of my family, and offered her exile. She confessed her crimes and refused mercy. She told me that I could take the Black and she would keep my daughter as a hostage to ensure that I would never tell of what I had learned. Robert happened to die the next week.”

Cersei Lannister reddens and snarls up at the Hand. Two of the direwolves snarl back. She, and nearly everyone else, shrink into themselves. Only the Ironborn seem unbothered.

The Queen steps forward once more. “Does anyone doubt that she is guilty?”

No one, not even Lords Kevan and Tyrion, speak up.

“How do you plead, Cersei Lannister?”

Lady Cersei tips her chin high in the air.

“I would do it again. Jaime is twice the man that Robert Baratheon was.”

“That, at least, we can agree on.”

Cersei Lannister suddenly shrieks, startling the tiny dragons into squawking.

“He deserves better than you! You ugly wench! You killed my son! You burned him alive! Look at what you have done to me! I am scarred for life!”

“Won’t be a very long life if you keep up with that screeching,” Osric Stark says. A few people titter nervously. The big Greyjoy man, Victarion, barks a laugh.

Cersei Lannister swings her emerald gaze to him. “You are a bastard mutt. You have no say here.”

The room holds its breath, even as Osric Stark grins that feral smile of his.

“Seven hells Cersei, show some decorum!” The Queen snaps. “There is no way you are getting out of this alive. The only thing to be decided is your manner of death.”

Cersei Lannister pales. “The Silent Sisters-“

“I do not follow the Seven. I will not encourage their nonsense. Personally, I’d like to name you my servant, make you scrub my floors and empty my chamber pot. I call your brother a friend however, so I will not break or humiliate you out of respect for him. A clean beheading is the most you can ask for, but right now I’m tempted to feed you to Dusk.”

“My daughter. Myrcella-“

“Will be fostered in Dorne until she comes of age. I do not kill little girls.” She looks over the Lannister’s shoulders, to the horrid corpses. Tywin Lannister stares back defiantly. “What will it be, Cersei? Will you shame yourself further?”

“A trial by combat-“

“No one will fight for you. Your brother cannot be found.”

“Shame, that,” a petite, brown haired woman says. Lyanna Stark stands behind her nephews, dressed in the same garb as they and the Queen.

Grey faced and wide eyed, Cersei Lannister truly begins to panic.

“How do you plead?” the Queen asks softly.

“Guilty,” she chokes out. “Guilty.”

“Very well. Oz, fetch me a block.”

A loud cry echoes through the hall. Myrcella Water clutches at her mother, whimpered pleas pouring from her pretty mouth. Queen Valaena watches on without pity. 

“What?! Now?!” Kevan Lannister cries, jolting to his feet. “Myrcella is-“

“Sansa Stark would have watched her father die,” Valaena interrupts. She stands as her son approaches with a wooden block. “Rhaenys Targaryen was pulled out from under her father’s bed and stabbed half a hundred times. Elia Martell was raped with her son’s brains coating her killer’s hands.”

She takes a deep, settling breath, finally looking away from Myrcella’s cowering figure to stare out at them all. Her eyes are burning with an unnatural fire. A mad fire. Seven save them, the queen is as mad as her father.

“My sister was forced to kill her brother and her husband. All of this tragedy stems from the mercy of Lannisters. Do not presume to demand any of a Targaryen.”

She turns the Waters girl, who is trembling in the crook of her mother’s shoulder. Cersei Lannister is staring off into space, her eyes glazed with her own madness. Her lips shape the same word over and over though no sound escapes.

“Myrcella. Look at me,” the Queen commands coldly.

The girl takes a deep shuddering breath before she untangles herself from her mother. She stares up at the Queen, her breath catching in horrible sobs.

Danaerys Targaryen makes her way over gracefully, her black dragon swiveling it’s tiny head this way and that. Her face is unreadable.

“You were a Princess once, but you are no one now,” the Princess says, “and must bear the shame of your parents and brother besides. This is your life now. This new life of yours is a hard one, yet it is easier than the lives most live. Stand, Myrcella Waters, and rise anew. Do not let this destroy you. Let it mold you. Let it harden you. Rise, Myrcella Waters. Stand and rise anew.”

The girl stands. Willas feels his own eyes burn with wetness as she forces herself to her feet. She staggers uncertainly like a newborn doe, blinking her tears away. Danaerys Targaryen smiles.

“Come here, Myrcella,” Ser Kevan orders.

Myrcella curtsies to the Targaryen women, straightens her shoulders, and walks to her uncles with sure steps.

“Very well,” Queen Valaena says. Someone has brought her a greatsword as tall as she is, it’s Valyrian steel gleaming darkly in the sunlight. “Any last words, Cersei Lannister?”

Cersei Lannister jolts out of her daze. Her wide eyes take in the sword, the block, and the Queen’s impatient expression.

“I was meant to marry your brother.”

The Queen snorts. “My father would have been a better match for you, I think.”

Ser Kevan shouts in outrage just as the Ironborn and Dornish chuckle.

“Anything else?”

Cersei Lannister, to her credit, arranges herself over the block. She does not flinch. She does not balk.

“I was the Queen,” she says fiercely.

“Aye. And a shit one, too.”

Ice slices through her neck in one slice. Her head tumbles and rolls. Long legs twitch and a torrent of blood gushes onto the marble floor. Renly recoils as her head stops at his feet. Willas rolls his eyes and uses his cane to shove it away from them both.

The Queen sighs before turning back to the remaining prisoner.

“I want to get this over with and you don’t deserve the attention,” she says. “Tywin Lannister, you stand accused of regicide and infanticide, but you are guilty of far more. You are a despicable man corrupted by greed. I doubt there has ever been a more avaricious man to ever draw breath. But you don’t care about any of that, do you? You only care about your legacy. What will the histories say of Tywin Lannister? What do you think Danaerys? What will we write of him?”

Danaerys Targaryen tilts her head to the side. She is astoundingly beautiful, even bald from the birth of her dragons. Blood is seeping up onto the hem of her dress, but she pays it no mind. The hatchling does, however. It floats down to sniff at the dark puddle.

“We will write nothing. His name will not be recorded. He will only be a footnote in the annals of history. ‘A man who reached too far above his station and met his end for it’.”

“Ooo, I like it. Very clever. What do you say, Lord Tywin? Do you like it?”

Lord Tywin does not speak. He only stares at the four direwolves prowling past the Targaryens, roused by the heady scent of blood. A massive man with a chained giant on his breast ignores the beasts, stepping around them without a care to steal the late queen’s corpse out of their sights.

“And how will he die, Danaerys?” Queen Valaena asks. “What should his sentence be?”

“The Dothraki would tie him to a horse naked and have him follow until he died.”

Prince Doran wheels his chair forward, glaring hard at the lion brought so low.

“Dorne would leave him to rot in the desert, only to save him at the last moment and abandon him each time he is healed.”

“The Vale would throw him out the Moon Door, Your Grace, but he has not offended our peoples so grievously.”

“The North would have his head and be done with it.”

“As would the Riverlands.”

“As would the Stormlands.”

Willas considers it for a moment. Truly, he is not a vengeful man. He has never had the patience or the energy for hate. He does, however, have a reputation to uphold and his family has never been threatened the way the Martells and Targaryens and Starks have. The Reach is not know for its strength and endurance as the Tully’s and the Stark’s and the Baratheon’s are. The Tyrells can not be seen as anything less than fierce to this new dragon queen.

“I would give him to my grandmother. She would think of something far more insidious than I ever could.”

Grandmother hums approvingly. The Greyjoys study her anew. 

“Leave him out in the middle of the sea,” one of them says. “If he lives, his great mind will have succumbed to ocean madness. He will be worthless.”

The Queen laughs nastily. “I think that one might be my favorite. What will it be, Tywin Lannister? How will you die?”

“Others take you, you barbarian whore.”

Ned Stark surges to his feet, as do half the Northmen and Stannis Baratheon, but Osric Stark raises his fist. The men come to a sudden halt, their angry shouts dying quickly.

The Prince prowls forward with Jon Snow on his heels, their heavy boots squelching in the blood. The little black dragon flares its wings threateningly as they approach. Stark only huffs and gently nudges it out of the way. The two of them stand shoulder to shoulder, one wrathful and the other solemn, two monstrous direwolves at either side.

“Apologize to my lords,” Stark growls.

“Apologize to our mother,” Snow says.

Tywin Lannister spits at the bastard’s feet. “I will not be cowed by some savage Dornish bastard.”

“You haven’t seen savage yet,” Snow says, still as long faced and serious as his uncle.

“And I doubt you’ve seen a Dornish bastard,” Stark chortles, his lips turned up in a smirk.

“Osric,” the Queen warns.

“It’s alright, Mother,” Snow says in his gentle way. “I’ve already decided.”

The bastard boy kneels in the blood and looks Tywin Lannister in the eye. A chill raises gooseflesh all over Willas. Names and dates tumble around his head, the answer coming to him just as it does Oberyn. His old friend curses vehemently, but does not dare interrupt. He leans heavily on his knees and watches with bated breath.

“I want you to know, before you die, who it is that killed you. My mother was not Ashara Dayne. My father was not Brandon Stark. My brother was Aegon Targaryen. My sister was Rhaenys Targaryen. And Elia Martell may not have been my mother, but I mourn her loss all the same.

“My name is Jon Snow. I was born to the Silver Prince and the She-Wolf.“

“My name is Osric Stark. I was born to the Wild Wolf and the She-Dragon. Were you in the North, were you in our home, we would drape your innards in the Heart Tree.”

“We may not be in the North, but we’ll feed you to the Old Gods anyway.”

Osric Stark lowers himself beside his cousin.

“Robb?” He asks.

Robb Stark rises, squeezing his mother’s tense shoulder as he passes. He kneels across from Tywin Lannister.

“Sansa?” Jon Snow asks softly. “The choice is yours.”

But Lady Sansa is already near, having followed her brother on silent feet. She lowers herself as gracefully as if she were kneeling before the altar of the Maiden, heedless of the blood staining her fine gown.

Robb Stark’s full lips pull back in a smirk.

“Jaime Lannister sends his regards,” he says, and this his eyes roll back in his head.

One by one, his kin do the same. Their pupils and irises disappear, leaving only emptiness in their wake.

One by one, the direwolves prowl forward. All but one throw their heads back in a howl, a terrible noise that pounds at Willas’s skull and tears into his ears. Outside, the call is picked up by the dragons and wolves strewn about the Keep.

Tywin Lannister dies screaming. He dies slowly. He dies missing two limbs and half his guts.

When the last of his gurgling stops, the throne room is deathly silent except for the wet smack of the wolves’ jaws and the black dragon’s furious sputtering.

Sansa Stark is the first to come to. Her blinks and licks her lips until her eyes lose their dull glaze. She blushes a little when she catches Willas’s gaze, but she refuses to back down. She does not look away until Robb Stark hauls her up and tugs her back to the bench.

“Well!” The Queen says, handing Ice off to Lord Eddard. “Now that’s done, we’ve got one more order of business to attend to. Who wants the Iron Throne?”

Several minutes of silence pass before Prince Doran speaks up. “Pardon, Your Grace?”

“Well I don’t fucking want it. I’ve got my revenge, sorted out that pesky blood vow. There really isn’t much else it could do for me. Who wants it?”

Someone makes a choking sound.

“I must say I expected more volunteers. No worries! This will be a fun game.”

A fun game, Willas mouths. Skinchangers and now this. What the fuck is happening?

“I won it back by dragonfire, so I suppose my son is next in line. Osric?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “I’ve got a Wull girl waiting for me at home.”

One of the northern lords laugh. Another grumbles in faux annoyance.

“Alright, then. Rhaegar’s heir would be next in line, I suppose. Jon? Would you like to be king?”

“No thank you, Mother. I wish to take the Black after traveling the Seven Kingdoms.”

“A noble choice, Jon. Your uncles will be glad to have you.”

Willas cannot believe this is happening. Not one, but three people have refused the Seven Kingdoms. Three! And one to go to the fucking wall! He glances over at Grandmother. She is just as floored as the rest of them seem to be. Only Stannis....

Stannis fucking Baratheon. The closest living male with Targaryen blood and Robert Baratheon’s heir. Seven fucking hells. They’ve got it all worked out. An incredulous laugh bubbles out of Willas. It’s all worked out so smoothly. Shock them with northern witchcraft and then pass the crown off to some other poor sod before they even realize what has happened.

How long have they been planning this? Since the Greyjoy Rebellion, when Stannis shared the Queen’s dragon? Since Ned Stark was named Hand? Since he was imprisoned?

Seven bleeding hells.

Grandmother must have reached the same conclusion, because she also chuckles. She tips her cane at the Lord of Winterfell, who only nods gravely in response.

“I suppose it would be Father’s heirs next,” the Queen continues, ignoring the Tyrells altogether. “Viserys is dead, may his troubled soul find peace. What about you Danaerys? Would you like to be the Queen?”

“I would like nothing more, but I am woefully unprepared. Westeros is still a strange place to me. I would need a husband-...Is there something amusing, Prince Oberyn?”

“Oh no, not at all,” he drawls, his cheeks red with mirth. “May I suggest Stannis Baratheon? He was King Robert’s heir and is just recently divorced. And easy enough on the eyes, I suppose, though not nearly as handsome as myself or Lord Willas. Willas, would you like to be a king?”

Willas can practically hear the moment the other lords piece it together. How thoroughly tricked they have all been. Willas has never been so delighted. This is the most fun he’s had in a year.

“Thank you dear friend, but someone else has recently caught my eye. I will be quite content to fall in love and raise my family in Highgarden when the time comes.”

He glances at Sansa Stark, who turns that exquisite shade of scarlet when she understands. He’d love to see how far that blush extends, how often he can make her do it.

He turns back to Daenerys and lowers his head in deference.

“Might I suggest Stannis Baratheon, Princess? He is known throughout the realm for his strong sense of justice and his victories in war. You’ll not find a man better suited for the job. He is also, as Oberyn says, easy on the eyes, though not nearly so handsome as myself and Robb Stark. Lord Stark, would you like to be a king?”

Robb Stark grins wolfishly. He truly is quite handsome. Willas wonders if he would blush as deliciously as his sister.

“No thank you, Lord Willas. I’ve been away from the North too long as it is. Might I suggest-“

“Oh, very well,” Princess Danaerys cuts in. “Stannis Baratheon, would you do me the honor of being my king?”

Lord Stannis stands and walks over to kiss her hand. They make an odd couple. He is well over six feet and almost plain. She is hardly more than five feet and the most beautiful woman in the room. Their’s will be an interesting regency, that much is certain.

“Excellent!” Queen Valaena says, clapping her hands together. She rips the crown off of her head and shoves it onto her sister’s. “Take good care of that. It was Aegon the Conqueror’s. Priceless artifact, you know. Anything else? No? Good.”

She bends down to kiss her sister on each cheek. Queen Danaerys stares back at her bewilderedly. This part was not rehearsed, then.

“I’m off, then. You all can sort the rest out, I’m sure.”

“What?! You’re leaving so soon?”

Valaena pauses and softens. “Only to Dragonstone, sister. This place makes my skin crawl. It is almost as though I can still hear our mother’s screams.” 

She turns abruptly and glares out over the assembled lords.

“Well? Are you going to kneel or are you just going to sit there like a bunch of gaping fools?”

One by one, each of the lords and ladies of the Great Houses kneel amongst blood and dragons and direwolves to swear fealty to Stannis Baratheon and Danaerys Targaryen. Princess Shireen joins the new couple, her face half hidden behind her hair until Danaerys shyly brushes it back.

It could be worse, Willas decides, noting the warmth in their queen’s eyes. It could have been far worse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s that! I hope you enjoyed this story. I really had a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> I’m not really a Danaerys fan, so I thought I’d change it up for myself. 
> 
> While this is definitely the end, here is my headcanon of what happens, but you can totally make up your own. I’d like to hear them.
> 
> -Sansa and Willas marry and have a thousand children. 
> 
> \- Osric does indeed marry his Wull girl, though she dies fighting in the Long Night. His last words are him calling out for his mother. His children are forever known as the Targaryens of the North and their house words are “ice and fire”.
> 
> \- Stannis and Danaerys do not have children and they too perish in the Long Night. 
> 
> -Shireen takes up the crown and is known as the First Queen and Shireen the Wise. Her children are named Stannis, Danaerys, and Davos.
> 
> \- Jaime and Lyanna are unofficial members of the Night’s Watch. They spend most of their time between the Wall, Dragonkeep, and Casterly Rock. They do whatever the fuck they want because who’s going to stop them?
> 
> -Ashara Dayne lives out a peaceful life in Starfall. She marries a blacksmith’s son and has a daughter named Elia.
> 
> \- Valaena and Ser Barristan die fighting the Night King. Jon Snow, Jaime Lannister, and Osric Stark are with her when succumbs to her wounds. Her last thoughts were of Brandon. 
> 
> Friendly reminder that I’m writing several stories about Valaena. Right now I’m working on Val/Ned, Val/Jaime, and Val/Benjen. Give them a look if you liked this one.


End file.
